needful
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: A twisted serial killer chooses a new play toy: the detective in charge of his case. Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood hunts the killer, but his own dark past surfaces to haunt him. SLASH, AU, adult themes, sexual content, strong language.
1. Kelly Morgan

Title: needful

Author: Mostly Harmless

Summary: A serial killer is on the loose, one who leaves his victims in twisted configurations that have earned him the name "Picasso." Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood is assigned the case, unaware that he's about to become part of the killer's dangerous game. When "Picasso" becomes obsessed with him, Wolfwood is pulled into his dark, diseased world and can feel his own mind slipping away into madness.

Rating: R

Pairings: Legato/Wolfwood with OC/Wolfwood and Wolfwood/Vash in later chapters.

Warnings: Violence, disturbing content, sexual themes (slash and het), graphic language. Alternate Universe. Not-beta-read. Re-organized for readability.

* * *

**needful**

* * *

Part I: Kelly Morgan

* * *

Kelly Morgan lived in a small blue house that had been converted into even smaller apartments. She woke every morning in time to feed her cat, shower and get dressed. Then she packed her backpack, grabbed her keys and hustled to her blue two-door. This was done in the same way every day with only the clothes, hair, and contents of the backpack changing.

Kelly Morgan pulled out of her driveway every morning at 9:00 and arrived in her class promptly at 9:15 with enough time to eat a granola bar and drink a juice before her chemistry teacher began his lecture. Apple juice was her favorite though she also drank orange juice and the occasional soda. She wanted to be a veterinarian.

Her classes ended at 1:20. She always headed to the nearby gym and stayed there for an hour. After a shower, she came home and called her mother. She watched TV and sometimes read a book then napped on her couch, and only woke when her phone rang or the cat meowed. Then Kelly Morgan did homework until it got dark.

At 10:00 every night, you could catch Kelly heading to work unless she called off sick or switched shifts. Sometimes, if she was late, she ran to her car in full gear: slinky dress and high heels. Other times she packed a bag and dressed at the club.

Until 2:00 you could find Kelly dancing on a bar or stage, sliding down a pole and gyrating to loud music. What they did not give her in salary, she made up for in the tips that wealthy gentlemen and working class Joes slid into her thong strap.

She left the club and was home by 2:30 every night to sleep and repeat the pattern. Kelly was reliable, predictable. Kelly seemed very happy. You could tell in the way she cooed when she scratched her cat's overlarge belly, in the way she laughed to her mother on the phone. Yes, Kelly Morgan liked her life.

He liked Kelly's life too. He liked Kelly.

* * *

Part II: The Dance

* * *

He was watching her. For the half hour he followed her, he noticed the soft scuffing sound her cheap shoes made on the concrete. He could hear the jingling of her heavy earrings and smell her perfume. All these things were so familiar. These were the same earrings he had watched her place on her delicate lobes countless times. The fragrance was the same she wore every night when she worked. He had watched her buy a new bottle of it seven weeks ago. The purse was the same cheap material as the shoes, but the dress, ah! The dress was new.

Expensive fabric clinging to her curves and moving with her long strides. That was his favorite part: her movements, for truly she moved like a dancer. As if at any moment she would suddenly start swaying with music only she could hear. It gave him ideas. This one was interesting enough to hold his attention. Four months was a long time to wait, but he liked games and this one was lots of fun.

He did not want her to change, not really, but he liked watching her reaction when something unusual happened. Sometimes she would find dead animals on her doorstep. Sometimes her alarm did not go off even though she knew she set it. Her water heater mysteriously died. Her phone lines were severed once or twice. He never followed a pattern in the things he did to her. No, he was very careful. He couldn't give the game away by being careless. So he spaced these occurrences far apart, watching her react, watching her scoop the small creature into plastic bags with tears in her eyes. Kelly loved cats. He liked them too. Every time she disposed of one he recalled how their fur felt when he clutched their heads and snapped their necks. Games like this were a lot of fun.

Unfortunately, the game had to end sometime. He had known the exact moment she became suspicious. It was not carelessness on his part; it was something else, something primal. The same thing that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck when you know someone is there, watching you. The same thing that makes mice freeze and sniff the air, searching for the cat nearby.

It had been weeks since she last left the house while he was there, hidden and watching. Of course he couldn't be there all the time, but he had his ways, his little network. He had been disappointed at first; he had considered her a woman of such spirit. But she had gone into hiding the moment she knew something was not quite right. He screamed and destroyed his hotel room when she first deviated from her pattern, and the tantrums only got worse when he realized she was not going to return to it.

How he imagined what was going on inside her pretty little head. How she told herself it was irrational, that she had no reason to feel this way, but the feeling did not disappear. In fact, it grew stronger everyday and she found herself growing cautious, fearful, paranoid.

There was no real limit to the times she checked the lock every night. And her neck was sore from craning it around behind her. Leaving the house was a nightmare, as was even going near the door, but she had to eat and that meant working.

How her grades were suffering! And her boss was furious! One more time and she was fired. To make matters worse, her usually efficient, reliable car had mysteriously died this morning. And no money for a cab, and no friends who knew her late night profession to call for a ride. She had to walk to work.

So she hurried, head swiveling in alertness in the hope that if she saw him first, she might have the chance to run and get away.

This was the best part: the final, fading moments before one game ended and another began.

Because they were never fast enough. Never strong enough.

When his hand clamped down over Kelly's mouth, he enjoyed the feeling of her teeth against his palm. She had such perfect teeth. And it was almost sexual, pressing her down into the pavement and ending it all, his body heavy on top of hers, her full breasts imprinting the fabric over his chest.

Her eyes were wide, leaking tears.

"Shhh," he whispered. He stroked the top of her head, her little face. Yes, here was his prey, trembling, eyes half mad with the kind of fear only those with one leg over a cliff can know. Those with a twitching finger on the trigger of a gun whose cold tip is pressed against their temple. Those who have met the means to their own end.

When hers came, her breath caught on a scream and then she jerked against him, limbs flailing, hips pushing against his own and all the little movements that proved to him that her body hadn't realized it was dead. There was a rhythm to her body as it pulsed and throbbed like a dance marking its own ending. He pushed down into it, loving the feel. And then she went limp, still and warm as if in afterglow.

"Kelly," he breathed against her neck and almost came when he felt it snap.

* * *

Part III: Picasso

* * *

_Damn. It was just gruesome_, he thought.

"Guess we know the cause of death," Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood mumbled around the bent cigarette that dangled from his mouth. He was having another one of those days: the kind where he felt himself cringing frequently at the idea of his schedule torn asunder and his inability to do a thing about it. Only it was worse than that. Much worse. Today had brought him more pressing concerns. One in particular...

He had to crouch low over the body to see the girl's face; her head was turned the wrong way. The smell of decay lingered about her, stronger than the perfume he could still barely smell. He twisted this way and that, careful of the chalk line, and took in every detail from the strange blue tint of her skin, to the slinky outfit she wore, and the scuffing on the bottoms of her shoes.

A bum had found her about an hour ago, lying in an alley, twisted beyond the ability of a human body, neck snapped, body contorted. It was just past nine o'clock but ten seemed years away. Something about these crimes always messed with time, made him feel like a hamster on a wheel, running and running and getting nowhere.

"Picasso," he whispered as he stood hurriedly to get away from the mutilated girl. He backed away and stared down at her as if willing her to sit up and explain what had happened. Just behind the telltale yellow tape that read, "Police Line Do Not Cross," spectators ducked and bounced to catch sight of her, while efficient, blue-clad officers struggled to stop them. Why they wanted to see was beyond him. He'd never understood spectators.

Wolfwood was beginning to hate the summer. For the past four years, when the weather got warm, the bodies appeared with alarming regularity. No witnesses, no leads. And always this--the horrific remains of the killer's work: a body stripped of dignity, left to rot.

He glanced to the left and winced at the look on his partner's face. Vash wasn't equipped to handle things like this. His pale green eyes were wide and stricken. The tall blonde didn't understand cruelty and simply couldn't bear to see it. How he had come to be a cop at all was still a mystery to Wolfwood. But how he had come to be his partner was a pestering memory at the back of his brain. He regretted it most at times like this.

"Listen, why don't you go get started on the report, write down what we know. 'Kay?"

Wolfwood moved to stand next to his lanky partner and gave what he hoped was a comforting slap on the back.

Vash nodded, but didn't move; he stood transfixed by the horror of it all. A girl who used to be alive who had been murdered in the most inhumane way and left for the rats to eat and for a bum to find her. Vash's body gave the first trembling hint that he was going to be ill. He raised his hand to his mouth.

"Vash, go file the report," Wolfwood repeated, this time with a firmer voice. He punctuated it with a push to his partner's shoulder. That did the trick.

Vash closed his eyes to block the sight of her, nodded again and then turned swiftly to leave. His trench coat fluttered behind him from the speed of his retreat. Wolfwood gritted his teeth at the knowledge that Vash would probably spend the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom, vomiting and crying.

"Your partner should pick a different beat. He's not cut out for handling the Picasso case."

Wolfwood turned to face the silky voice of Midvalley, just a regular cop trying to earn a paycheck. It wasn't what Wolfwood wanted to hear right now. Mainly because Midvalley had a point.

"I know. He's a bit soft," Wolfwood shrugged and hoped Midvalley would let it drop. He had been thinking the exact same thing for over a year now but knew how badly Vash wanted to prove himself. Whenever he mentioned Vash moving on to something less violent, less gruesome, Vash defended his ability to cope, and repeated 'I'm okay' so many times that Wolfwood's head would spin. It felt like a betrayal to go above him, to go to the chief and ask for Vash to be moved.

Sadly, it was the one betrayal that he simply couldn't commit. He owed Vash a lot, after all. And if the idiot said he wanted to play detective, Wolfwood was obligated to let him.

"Soft?" Midvalley repeated, drawing Wolfwood back from his thoughts.

"_Yeah_, a bit."

"He's more than a bit soft," Midvalley snapped and it almost sounded like he was scolding Wolfwood. "He can't handle this. Every time I look at him at a scene like this it makes _me_ feel sick and I've been doin' this for years. Take my advice: get him off this beat, get yourself a new partner who knows the ropes and stop trying to play the nice guy. You're no good at it."

Wolfwood only sighed and extinguished his cigarette on the bottom on his shoes. This was a lousy day. Rotten. It dragged along with excruciating slowness--overlarge feet scraping the pavement--as Wolfwood made sure everything was sent where it needed to be, asked all the right people the right questions, handed out assignments like candy at Halloween and realized that despite it all, his work was nowhere near finished.

He left the rookies behind to clean up the scene and get the body shipped to Old Man Cain for examination then hopped into his car, heading to the station to get back to work and to check on Vash. Some of the other guys on the force joked that Wolfwood treated his car better than they treated their wives. But it had cost him quite a lot of money and he had no intention of letting it fall into disrepair. He kept it waxed, washed, polished, and under cover whenever possible.

Sliding into the cool leather seat was a pleasure every time.

He adjusted his mirrors, turned on his CD player and hit play. Bach floated through the interior of his car. That was better. Tension fell away from him like rain off a roof. His mind cleared, his senses sharpened. Only then did he pull into traffic. Lulled by the music, Wolfwood was able to recall the details of this newest crime and wrestle with everything he had seen and heard in his year and a half on the Picasso case.

Young and cocky, he had taken it on with all the confidence of a prize-winning bull, unaware of the full history of the case and the bad luck that followed investigators and officers assigned to work it.

Picasso had been at large for three years before Wolfwood and his new partner, Vash, joined the team working to catch him. Just new to this force, having transferred from the east, Wolfwood hadn't known what he was up against. One look at the case folder and he realized that he had bitten off more than he could chew: four detectives before him had already come and gone and next to no progress had been made on solving anything.

It was to such dark thoughts that Wolfwood pulled into the parking garage and parked in the spot reserved for him. Inside, the station was a frenzy of activity, the noise enough to cause headaches.

Cops shouted back and forth to each other, men and women from all walks of life, handcuffs clinking together, were wrestled through the building. One started flailing wildly and injured two officers before he was finally subdued.

Wolfwood was too used to it all to pay it much attention, but the noise was...bothersome.

A quick word with one of the paper jockeys told him that his partner was indeed losing his breakfast and lunch in the bathroom. With thanks tossed over his shoulder, Wolfwood navigated his way through the cluster of desks, officers and criminals before he reached his own office. His sanctuary. Closing the door against the noise was like inventing his own Utopia daily. Everything here, at least, was under his control. The paperwork lined up evenly with the left corner of his desk, his mail delivered to a shelf on the far right, and his coffee mug sitting at just the perfect angle atop his coaster.

He settled into his chair, his gaze drifting, as it always did, to the wall ahead of him covered in photos and newspaper clippings arranged in chronological order.

Each victim was a freakish monument to cruelty and the sick warped mind of the killer. Human form and shape was stripped away leaving the broken sculptures that earned the murderer the nickname "Picasso." It was the only parallel they could find: Picasso the artist had painted the human form in the most abstract way, breaking the figure into simple, overlapping shapes. And this murderer, this butcher, he broke his victims into unrecognizable versions of bodies and left them to be found, his masterpieces.

Wolfwood added this victim to the growing list. Yet another one they couldn't help, another one they couldn't save. At least doing paperwork would make him feel like he had some value since he obviously wasn't much of a detective. He sat forward in his chair, pulled out one of over a dozen identical pens and got to work.

It was hours before Old Man Cain sent up his initial report. Her name was Kelly Morgan and the cause of death was quite unusual considering how obvious it had seemed with her head facing the wrong way: her heart had burst inside her chest. The blue tint to her skin was quite simply lack of oxygen and the pooled blood in her limbs.

There were no incisions, no punctures, no signs of intrusion at all. And no drugs in her system that could cause this type of violent reaction. Kelly Morgan's heart had simply decided to explode. He flipped through the hastily written report and closed it with a frown. If it weren't for the odd placement of her head in relation to the rest of her body, Wolfwood would doubt Picasso's involvement entirely. She was hardly the worse example of what he could do.

Wolfwood stood to examine the other photos on the wall more closely. The first murder in their files was a woman named Elise Carter. They had found her in the parking lot of her apartment. Her legs had been tied together and her head shoved between them, making her look something like a human pretzel. They had attributed the final cause of death to internal bleeding. Wolfwood cringed, remembering his phone conversation with that first coroner. _Internal Bleeding_, they had said with a shudder. Which meant that she had been alive when her legs were broken, had felt it, or most of it until she passed out. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, how it would feel to have your legs broken in dozens of places so that they could tie together like thick, fleshy ribbons.

Why was Kelly Morgan's death so simple? In comparison to the times when they had found hands trapped inside bodies and necks stretched until heads met backs, Kelly Morgan seemed like a whisper next to a waterfall.

What was most infuriating was that the victims were textbook similar: single females living alone, all of them with regular, predictable habits. From interviewing their friends and family, he knew you could set your watch by them. Or could have, anyway. They should have been able to predict Picasso's movements and strategy based on that alone, to figure his next mark. But they hadn't.

He was sure that Kelly Morgan would have a near identical profile to the other women. How many warnings could they issue through the news and the papers before people started to alter their behavior?

Wolfwood sat down heavily and sighed. It was wrong to blame the victims--he knew that. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if they had heeded the warnings and taken precautions. If they had stopped taking the same way home everyday, stopped shopping at the same store every Wednesday. They may have ended up just as dead despite it all. With someone like Picasso, it was difficult to say anything for certain.

They knew nothing about him. The information he had gotten from the previous detectives would fit on a half sheet of paper. Most of it was a psychological profile assembled by their Profiler downstairs and Wolfwood knew that no matter how good a shrink was, when it came to figuring out the brain of someone you'd never met before, there were too many ways to get it wrong. Which left him back at square one with a trail of bodies forming the perimeter.

If Picasso had fingerprints, he didn't leave them behind. If he had hair, he kept it shaved or in a cap of some kind so that they never found any. No traces of skin, no fingernails, no torn bits of fabric. He was disgustingly meticulous.

Still, Wolfwood got the feeling that he was missing something simple. Or perhaps he was waiting: waiting for Picasso to make a mistake. Perhaps one day he'd pick the wrong victim. Maybe he'd pick a fighter, someone who would live, get away, or leave some kind of clue. One day, Picasso might just slip up. And then, he'd get the bastard.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Hello, welcome to one of my many WIP fics, "needful." According to the document properties, this one has been sitting on my computer for over two years. Scary. I really want to try my best to finish it, but...well, I have a bad reputation for never finishing fics... 

This is a slower moving story so bear with it. The sex, slash, etc. happens much, much later.

I owe a lot to the following for inspiration for this one:

"The Watcher" (the film starring Keanu Reeves...it's not very good, but the idea was nice)

"Prayers for Rain" (the novel by Dennis LeHane)

"The Magician's Tale" (the novel by David Hunt (William Bayer))

And, of course, I own neither these, nor Trigun.


	2. Picasso

* * *

Part IV: Blue Eyes

* * *

_Undoubtedly male, but with issues regarding his sexuality. Affirms his own potency and virility by attacking women. The killer feels some form of sexual satisfaction from the crimes and has perhaps been convicted of rape or sexual assault in the past. The killer is aroused by pain and the idea of dominance. Was perhaps a victim of sexual assault himself. Is uncomfortable in crowds, shies from human contact and feels as if he is not understood. Type A personality, values order. Obsessive compulsive tendencies. Most likely works somewhere where repetitive activities are required and perfection is expected._

Wolfwood knew the file by heart, and wondered why he was wasting time reading it, again. Nothing had changed; no windows had opened. No bloody light at the end of the tunnel. It was an ordinary Monday and he paced around his office, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He couldn't stand the idea of fouling his sanctuary with the smell of cigarette smoke, but trying to think without one was like wading through tar. He coughed a bit and realized that his simile was probably right on target. These things would be the death of him one day.

But he was hooked and a creature of habit, so he let it sit there as if magically glued to his bottom lip, the world's most nicotine-filled security blanket.

He wondered if he should go to the smoking lounge and actually light up because the Picasso case wasn't making any more sense than before. And the profile wasn't helping.

It was odd, but Wolfwood couldn't scratch the persistent itch in his mind that told him the picture wasn't complete. Certainly, their profiler had been as thorough as possible given what they knew. And what they had felt right, but it was like looking into a house through a frosted window: little bits of the world within were clear, but the rest was blotted out by ice and breath.

Picasso was more complicated than this somewhat wrinkled piece of paper suggested. What was worse was that Wolfwood knew that Picasso's madness was the kind that was difficult to sift through without having the man in front of him. This was a madness partially covered by methodology. Everything Picasso did was pristine. Only the results were ugly.

Not for the first time, Wolfwood wondered how long Picasso had lurked like a cancer in the shadows, watching Kelly Morgan. Waiting for her.

* * *

"We got the report back from the mechanic," Wolfwood said, tossing the file onto Vash's desk. He never bothered to knock on Vash's office anymore, though Vash had never stopped his double wrap against the doorframe before entering Wolfwood's. It was something that Wolfwood appreciated. He wasn't to be disturbed when he was in his office. Vash and the rest of the precinct knew that. 

Vash picked up the folder and paged through it distractedly. "And?"

Wolfwood perched on the edge of Vash's somewhat disorganized desk. "Sugar."

"Sugar?"

"Yep. In the gas tank. And more than a spoonful."

Vash shook his head. "I guess whatever was left of Kelly's carburetor wasn't pretty."

"You could say that."

"So he ruined her transportation and then attacked her on the way to work?" Vash gave the report more attention now, his eyes scanning over the words quickly. "Has he ever tried something like this before?"

Wolfwood answered without a pause. "Angela Beasley went into a 24 hour grocery store and came back out to find her car had flat from running over a nail. He got her while she was waiting for the cab."

Vash sat forward and rested his head on his fist. "Anybody can drive over a nail. It just sounds like an accident. Are there any other examples of Picasso doing something so obvious?"

Wolfwood gave his chin a scratch. "Nothing that springs to mind. But we're dealing with four years of material here. That's a lot to remember, we can double check the files tonight." He shrugged, but noticed that Vash had that look on his face, the one that suggested he was thinking faster than his lips could move.

"No, you know this case inside and out. You'd remember something like this and so would I. This one...is different." Vash bit his lip and looked down and it made him seem impossibly young. "I can feel it."

Wolfwood stared at his partner for a minute, wondering why his words seemed to carry so much weight. He gave up trying to figure it out after a minute. Vash was a mystery for another time.

"How are your half of the interviews going?" Wolfwood asked to break the heavy silence.

Vash leaned back and seemed to relax some. "Hard to organize. College students keep strange hours. Pinning one down is only half the trouble."

Wolfwood nodded his understanding. "What have you learned so far?"

"They all say the same thing: Kelly Morgan had been acting strangely for about a month. She seemed nervous and jumpy. She rarely made it to classes. She stopped answering her phone."

It was a familiar story and one Wolfwood was already tired of hearing. Almost every one of the victims — those with friends and family to contact — had obviously known they were being stalked shortly before they were killed. Most of them seemed to have caught on only a week or so before Picasso closed in.

The victims' friends and family always noted that women who had once been so predictable suddenly missed appointments, cancelled long-standing weekly dinner dates, stopped going to work. The last few weeks of their lives were chaotic, paranoid nightmares.

Kelly Morgan had just held out for longer.

"It looks like she forced his hand. He got desperate and trashed her car as a way to flush her out. Damn shame it worked," Wolfwood finished on a sigh.

Vash expression was sad for just a moment, but he pulled himself together. The struggle to do so was written on his face.

"I talked to the owner at the club where Kelly Morgan worked," he said. "He said he was close to firing her. She had called off dozens of times. Sometimes she just didn't show up at all."

_Damn_, Wolfwood thought. Picasso had really done a number on this girl. He wondered what it had been like to be Kelly Morgan, paranoid, but trying to convince herself that she had no reason to be. Walking alone in the dark like that, checking over her shoulder, thinking that she was going to make it, if she could just live...

What kind of guts did it take to leave the house when you knew someone was out to get you?

For all that he was a detective, getting into the mind of the victim was hard enough. Getting into the mind of this particular killer was beginning to feel impossible. But he worked, worked some more, and added work into the mix just to spice things up. Eventually, he had progress in the form of neat stacks of paper, perfectly organized folders that boasted dots on all the i's and crosses on every t.

With all the reports in order, the last day of Kelly Morgan's life was assembled as was the last week of her life, and the week before that. But even with events seeming so clear, what was hard to tell was how long, exactly, had Picasso been watching her before she finally noticed.

And how had he found Kelly Morgan? In a city this size, crowded from downtown to uptown to the shiny suburbs and back, how had he singled her out? When had he first seen her?

If he could answer these questions, he'd be better off, and Picasso would be in jail. He tapped his pen on his blotter steadily, the beat soothing. Vash was out wrapping up the last of his interviews, while Wolfwood was chained to his desk, wading through paperwork and phone calls and red tape. He knew he was good at these sorts of things, so he couldn't complain too much. The Chief always said that he wished everyone filed reports as pristine as Wolfwood's.

But the fact remained that he felt as if the longer he sat here, staring at the same forms over and over again, the more his newest crime scene sat and grew cold, and all the clues with it. Because there simply had to be clues, he just wasn't seeing them.

He sighed, and was glad when the phone rang to distract him from his thoughts.

"Detective," the generic voice of a station operator said, "you have a call."

Wolfwood noticed there was a particular edge to the woman's voice.

"It's Lisa Morgan," she said. "Kelly Morgan's mother."

* * *

The first thing he thought when he saw her was, _Sweet_. 

Her smile, her laugh, the way she scratched the back of her head and grinned hugely when she was unsure or nervous — all of it sweet and so sincere. And her eyes were the palest blue he had ever seen, like shallow pools of still water on an autumn day. Like ice. Like skin hours after death. Like his Kelly's skin had been the day after he said goodbye to her.

He saw Blue Eyes carry her bags neatly and without strain, saw her brush her long brown hair away from her face, and decided that this one was his. His new game.

All that night he sat up, thinking about her. He had thought about her until he remembered Kelly, who had still been with him in those days. Not so long ago, was it? But Kelly hadn't been perfect. Not really. She had lied to him, made him think she was something she wasn't. But now he had someone else, someone who might just keep him interested for awhile, someone to help the world make sense.

So he followed Blue Eyes home and watched her methodically write letters to her family, following a list arranged alphabetically. He watched as she carefully placed the stamps precisely in the corner of the envelops and lay the bundle carefully on the table. And he knew then what he had though he knew with Kelly: that she was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Even the windows of her house — tall and clean, letting him see inside — were perfect.

He watched through the barely curtained windows off her dinning room as she sat down to a simple meal for one, turning her bowl so the pretty, floral design faced her.

He watched as she turned down her bed, snuggled against the overstuffed pillows and went to sleep.

Sighing, he whispered her name.

"Milly."

* * *

Part V: Victim #9

* * *

Lisa Morgan was nothing like her daughter. Even her house was as different from Kelly Morgan's modest apartment as could be. 

Whereas Kelly Morgan had lived in excruciating cleanliness, her mother's house was the kind that was only cleaned before company arrived on the holidays. In one of the chairs sat a pile of laundry in need of folding; many of the pictures on the walls — dozens and dozens of them in mismatched frames — were tilted and all of them dusty. Even the furniture was worn and clawed. The culprits, three over-large tabby cats, prowled around, staying close to the walls and giving Wolfwood suspicious looks.

Lisa Morgan made apologetic noises when he arrived. "I'm so sorry," she said in a voice as thin as wet paper. "I just didn't have the time to clean with...with...all that's been going on."

He stooped a little to avoid a hanging lamp, and then stepped over a tabby that hissed, swatted at him, and then fled into what he assumed was the dinning room.

"It's not a problem," he said, wondering if he sounded sincere.

He was glad when she seemed relieved to hear it. She gestured for him to have a seat before settling down across from him. Wolfwood squirmed a little; the seat was lumpy, a spring sticking into his back. There was a part of him with its fingers twitching, wanting to adjust the pictures until they sat parallel to the wall and floor instead of skewed sideways. It wanted to vacuum the cat hair off the tattered carpet where it stuck.

He lifted his eyes to Lisa Morgan's bloodshot ones and let that distract him.

"I'm so sorry for bothering you when you must be so busy," she said. "And I-I know I already spoke to your partner. He told me to call him 'Vash'. He was very helpful. Please tell him...thanks...thank you."

"I will," Wolfwood said. He noticed that everything about this woman was fragile like glass. Her hands were bony with long fingers and she wrung them when she spoke. Her lips were thin and made thinner when she pressed them into a line, as if she were trying not to cry. Yes, she was nothing much like her daughter. This woman was worn out, tired, beaten down.

Kelly Morgan had been slender but curvaceous; her lips had been full, her eyes bright and wide. She smiled out at Wolfwood now from crooked picture frames, a girl who seemed to have loved her life. That smiling girl was a far cry from the way he had first seen her — blue and cold, her body twisted and her eyes dead to the world.

Lisa Morgan's eyes darted about nervously. She wanted to say something, she wanted to talk to him, but it was obvious she didn't know how to go about it. Wolfwood had listened to the recording of her interview with Vash, had read the transcripts through more times than he could count. She had been distraught, that was true, but she had been helpful, telling his partner everything she knew that might help bring her daughter's killer to justice.

She had told Vash what they needed to know with a voice thick with tears, but she had still told him. Now she sat in silence in a grubby house, the minutes stretching, lengthening.

Wolfwood sighed internally. The difference, of course, was him. He knew that if he were Vash, she would have already gotten to the point, explained why she called the station in the first place, requesting to speak to him in person.

Wolfwood knew this because, plain and simple, Vash had a way with people.

Vash could walk into an interrogation room with a cold witness — a cold uncooperative witness — and in the time it took for him to order coffee and donuts for both of them, the guy would be spouting off his story for the world to hear. Vash usually had all the details before the coffee got cold. People trusted him; people scooted closer to him when he spoke and wanted his understanding and attention. People..._liked_ Vash.

It could have been his eyes, which were wide and accepting. It could have been his smile, which was sincere and honest. It could have been any number of things combined that made Vash the ideal person to send out to interview and interrogate.

Whatever it was, Wolfwood didn't understand it, he only knew he didn't have it. If you wanted a crime scene analyzed and catalogued thoroughly, nobody did it better than Wolfwood. If you wanted someone with a solid stomach to handle the gruesome shit, he was your guy.

But if you wanted someone to gather evidence from witnesses, you sent Vash.

And times like this when he had to do it himself, he compensated for whatever it was about him that made people ill-at-ease the best that he could.

He had been taught that eye contact was something that instilled trust and eased conversations. But in his experience, it only made suspects and victims nervous. He didn't know what it was, but there was something about him — or maybe just his eyes — that sent signals to people, told them to be weary, to be cautious. Over the years he had learned that it was better to keep eye contact to a minimum. It usually did the trick.

It wasn't working today.

Lisa Morgan stared at her shoes and didn't talk. She wrung her skeletal hands and didn't talk.

Wolfwood cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for you loss," he said carefully. "I didn't know your daughter, but Kelly Morgan seemed like a wonderful girl. And you've been very helpful. We appreciate everything you've done."

She gave a mechanical nod. "Oh...yes...well I wanted to help. I hope that I...helped."

"You did. Very much. And please call any time if you...remember anything or just need...something." Wolfwood winced on the inside. He was aware that he wasn't doing very well at the moment.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was growing thicker by the second. She reached blindly for a box of tissues sitting on the cluttered table before her and dabbed at her eyes.

"It's just," she continued, "Mr. Vash...Vash...he said some things that were hard to believe. He said my Kelly —" Here she stopped to blow her nose softly. "He said she danced. At a club."

Wolfwood tried to suppress the familiar, heavy, helpless feeling that came whenever he was faced with this situation. Here it was, another example of the unavoidable side effects of people living their lives, and then dying and leaving them behind — messy, half-formed things punctuated by mistakes.

As far as he knew, this was the hardest thing about death. Lives never really just ended. Certainly people died, were murdered, had accidents — that was the way of the world. But what no one seemed to realize was that after they died, they still left their lives behind them, the empty shells of things they used to fill up with what and who they were. Books they read, the places they worked, the things they made and stole and broke. The people they loved; the lies they told.

His own life, he knew, would read like a dark comedy without the humor. Just one ugly blunder after another.

What would they say about him after he was lying beside Kelly Morgan?

But that was a worry for another time, wasn't it?

For now, Wolfwood was one of the ones stuck cleaning up lives that the dead and murdered left behind.

How could he phrase his words to keep this glass woman from shattering? "Yes," he said slowly, "the night it happened, Kelly Morgan had been on her way to work. It was a club called the 'Gentleman's Preferred'."

That was the way you talked to the grieving, never "The night your daughter was murdered." All that got shortened into one tiny word: it.

"The night _it_ happened."

'It' was an amazing paradox in that it hid the truth even while it bared it wide open by creating this gaping hole where everyone listening filled in the gap with their own variation on the same ugly theme: Kelly Morgan was dead.

He wondered if it was better simply to spell it out and get it over with.

Lisa Morgan shook her head, her limp hair falling about her long face. "But you see, that can't be. B-because she never told me that. And she told me everything. So it's simply a mistake. Kelly wouldn't do...that."

Wolfwood closed his eyes slowly. "Ms. Morgan, I'm sorry. I can only tell you what we've learned. Kelly Morgan had been working at that club for three years."

She winced and her breath caught in her throat. "W-why would she...Why didn't she..."

"I'm sure that Kelly Morg —"

She interrupted softly with a single word: "Kelly."

Wolfwood looked up suddenly. Her tone was stronger, firmer now, as if the word gave her strength. "I'm sorry?" he asked, uncertainly. What had he said to make her turn cold? Colder?

She sat up straighter and stared him in the eye. "Kelly. My daughter's name is...was Kelly. _Kelly_," she spat. "Don't talk about her like she's just another c-case for you."

He blinked once, twice, and then simply stared at her, running over their conversation in his mind. Only then did he realize how it must have sounded to a mother in pain, hearing a stranger use her daughter's full name — always Kelly Morgan — like it was printed on forms, on toe-tags, on mortician's reports.

That, then, was yet another difference between him and Vash, he thought. Wolfwood was certain his partner called her Kelly. _Just_ Kelly. Like she was a person, not a case file.

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was doing that. I didn't mean to upset you."

She wasn't crying now. Her jaw was set, her shoulders rigid. Lisa Morgan no longer looked fragile at all. She nodded then gestured at the wall. "See that girl in the pictures? That was my daughter. You get up and you go look at her. See how _I_ remember my baby."

It was an odd request and at first he considered refusing. But one look at the edge to her eyes, the downward curve of her lips and he rose, moving to the wall of crooked pictures to look at Kelly Morgan.

_Kelly_.

She was smiling in every frame, her arm draped around friends or cradling kittens. She posed for shots in sombreros at birthday parties with a silly grin on her face; she threw up a peace sign in front of her new car. A car that a madman had used sugar to destroy. But none of that was in these pictures. These pictures were the cotton candy of life, all the snap shots of things that were never bad because everything was frozen like this: alive. Not breathing, no, but still alive, here behind the glass. Here in color on a wall where nothing ever changed but the layers of grime blocking the view.

Wolfwood tried not to think of another wall covered in photographs. One where no one was smiling. Where no one was alive. Not like this.

He paused before a photograph of a sunny day, the barest bit of blue sky peaking out from behind a building that took up most of the frame. Kelly was standing beside a girl with dark curls and green eyes. They were pointing behind them and laughing, both of them in flip flops and sunhats. He followed their fingers to the building that stood behind them where they were pointing.

It was a hotel.

The wall returned to his mind like a flash from an old fashioned camera, too bright, too loud. He saw it in stark black in white, in slick blood red. An entire office wall covered in grotesque photos. One in particular.

Wolfwood couldn't breath, his heart sped. "I'll be a son of a..." he said, not realizing he had said it out loud.

His eyes swivelled back to the girl with the dark hair.

"What's the matter?" Lisa Morgan asked frantically from behind him, but he couldn't answer. His eyes couldn't move from the face of the girl standing beside Kelly. That girl...

Green eyes.

Dark hair.

His hand lifted and he rested a finger on the greasy glass of the photo.

"Angela Beasley," he whispered.

Victim #9.

To Be Continued...


	3. The Storm

Author's note: Sorry the update was so late on this; I was out of town and away from my computer. To make up for it somewhat, I'm uploading two parts (Part VI and Part VII)! Yay! This chapter is even ever so slightly a little bit longer.

Also, to everyone who has read and reviewed, thanks a million! Reviews make fanfiction authors smile like little girls.

Warning: This story will contain disturbing sexual content (heterosexual and homosexual) in the near future. I'm just slow getting to it...sigh.

* * *

Part VI: The Storm

* * *

Vash wouldn't answer the phone.

"Dammit!" Wolfwood screamed at no one in particular. The window of his car was down and he noticed the heads of drivers and passengers in nearby cars swivelling towards him with shocked expressions on their faces.

Wolfwood really didn't care. He needed to talk to Vash and the sooner it happened, the better. But several calls to the station later and Vash was nowhere to be found. Wolfwood cursed again. Where was his partner when he _needed _him?

_That guy..._

He tried to calm down and kicked himself mentally for thinking badly of Vash since the reality was that his partner had an uncanny ability for being at the right place at the right time. It had saved Wolfwood's life once.

He closed his cell phone with a flick of his wrist, going over all the things that had to be done. He needed to get to the station. He needed to go through his files.

More than anything, he wanted to look at the wall.

Carefully juggling a cigarette and the wheel of his car, Wolfwood retrieved the photograph from the passenger seat. He rested it on his lap like something precious even though it was only a greasy photograph in an ugly frame. He stole a glance at it.

These two girl, smiling at him from the shot. Maybe, just maybe, _they_ were the key, the thing he needed to finally...

He let that thought die. He didn't need to build air castles. He needed clues.

And in the back seat of his car were other photographs. Several albums worth of photographs, in fact. Lisa Morgan was a shutterbug and had taken thousands of shots of everything from first birthdays to proms and speech contests. She had given them all to him and told him to look hard. If there were anything in these pictures that would help, he would find them.

Kelly's life was a still-frame movie waiting to be viewed. Somewhere in the middle of it all, he could find Picasso.

The sleek black car stopped at a corner. Wolfwood's eyes swept the intersection. The police station was to the left.

He should go left, this he knew. He had a new lead; he had calls to make and duties to delegate. Yes, everything he had to do was to the left.

Somehow, without noticing he was doing it, Wolfwood turned right. He only felt a minor twinge that said this was the wrong way--that this was not the way he usually took. But he was following a route that his mind knew.

A few corners and several narrow, grungy streets later and Wolfwood found himself standing before a yellow strip of tape marking off a crime scene, his car left in a parking lot three blocks away.

Kelly had died here.

Mostly, the alley looked like what it was: all that was left of a crime scene. The chalk outline was faded, the yellow tape looked tattered, and trash was already piling up in corners that his team had gone over meticulously.

But this place marked an event, so it was more than what it seemed.

Wolfwood was feeling something. Something odd. It was all related to his conversation with the sobbing, broken Lisa Morgan--with seeing pictures of a still-smiling, still-vibrantly alive Kelly. For the first time in his life, Wolfwood felt the loss of a victim from one of his cases profoundly. Kelly was more than a case to him now; she was a personality, a girl with a life that was over.

It was a dangerous place to be. Because if he cared about one, he would care about them all. If that happened, how could he work--how could he live--with the guilt of not catching their killer?

Because Picasso was still out there, and he would kill again.

Wolfwood stood there, silently, watching the stillness of a place where a good daughter had passed away into nothingness.

If one were to have watched carefully, they would have seen that his lips moved silently around old words usually uttered in stone structures with tall spires and stained glass windows.

He said them and meant them and then said them again and again until they ran out like a river drying up.

His prayer over, he lifted a tiny cross that hung from a chain around his neck and brought it to his lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to no one at all. In the distance, a clap of thunder sounded out, echoing across the gray sky of his city. He waited for the storm.

* * *

Part VII: Milly

* * *

Milly had a nice life, he decided.

Her routine was perfect. She awoke by 6:00 every morning, made her bed, took a shower, got dressed, and then ate breakfast. On Wednesdays she did a load of laundry; on Thursdays she set out her recyclable garbage; and on Friday she set out a single bag of trash.

She wasn't a wasteful girl. What she _was_ was methodical. She separated her garbage into smaller bags and then bundled them up in black garbage bags: fruit and vegetable peels in one bag, plastic wrappers in another, batteries and metals in yet another.

It was easy to see that she had a sweet tooth; her trash was often filled with the wrappers of little snack cakes and individual cups of pudding.

She left the house by 7:30, drove through rush-hour traffic, and arrived at work in time to get started by 8:20. Her office had tall, wide, clean windows and blinds she rarely closed. He liked her windows a lot. Through them he could see her perfect posture, her sweet smile, her crystal blue eyes that were so unlike his own. Hers had feeling in them; hers had stories for anyone to read. Milly would never lie. Not to him.

On the days when he could watch her, he was lulled by her consistency, soothed by the idea of life uninterrupted. Even when the heat of the sun on the roof burned his skin, as it often did; even when his body ached from holding this position--arms shaking from the strain of keeping binoculars up to his eyes--he was at peace here, watching her.

She took tea at 11:00, had lunch at 12:45, returned one hour later and always set back to her documents and phone calls and forms with rare enthusiasm.

Watching her, watching her, watching her. He took a deep breath and imagined that this must almost, almost be what love feels like.

And then everything went wrong. It started at exactly 1:32 and kept getting worse. Yes, everything was wrong, wrong, wrong and he hated that.

Someone was ruining her routine. It wasn't her fault. Never _her's_. She was not the reason someone knocked on her door, and started speaking to her. She wasn't the reason they kept talking and wouldn't go away.

This was supposed to be the time when she made copies of forms and updated files on her computer. This was supposed to be his respite.

Instead of doing what she should have been doing, Milly was talking to a short, balding man that he recognized as her supervisor. He didn't like Mr. Supervisor. His temper rose and kept rising.

But Milly smiled and nodded to Mr. Supervisor, then frowned and looked troubled for a moment. When she nodded again, she wasn't smiling. The conversation continued for so long that it cut into the time when Milly should have been going to the restroom and getting another tea.

When Mr. Supervisor finally went away, he nursed an infant hope that she might return to doing what she should have been doing, that the day was not completely wrecked. But she didn't.

Instead, she stood, glanced out her wide window and studied the view for a minute. Her stare was unflinching, steady, knowing.

His heart beat wildly in his chest. Surely she was staring right at him, looking foolish stretched out on a roof like this, sweating in the summer heat.

And her blue eyes, they saw right through him. He couldn't breathe, could only wait for her eyes to widen in horror as she realized he was there. He was watching her and she knew. She _knew_.

His heart shuddered to a quiet beat again when she turned away from the window, and then grabbed an umbrella from where it rested beside the door.

He noticed it then, too, the clouds gathering overhead, the gray drab mass of them piling up above.

He was safe. She didn't know. He was safe.

Milly, however, was not.

* * *

There was a respectable pile of cigarette butts at his feet.

The answers were coming to him out here. Normally he needed the calm of his office, the heavy sound of classical music in his car. Now all he had was a cold crime scene and a pack of cigarettes waiting in the wing once he finished this one off. Somehow it was enough.

Angela Beasley was Picasso's ninth victim. They knew more about the way she died than they knew about her as a person. She had been--what? --two detectives ago? Three? To Wolfwood, she was nothing but forensic reports and figures, clues he couldn't confirm, evidence he no longer had access too. Not like Kelly...

Kelly was..._real_.

But Angela Beasley and Kelly had known each other; had even been friends so it seemed. And the hotel in the picture was the last place Angela had been before Picasso got her--in the parking lot of a grocery store mere days after she checked out. No one had even heard her scream.

That Hotel--the Southern Inn and Lodge--was a footnote in the background of the story surrounding Angela Beasley's twisted body. Perhaps no one had ever thought it important before, not enough to dig deeply into. Perhaps they had forgotten about it.

Wolfwood wouldn't forget it. He couldn't.

What was the connection between the hotel and Picasso? Wolfwood was going to find out, but first he needed to locate his ever-so-helpful, but absent partner.

He was reaching into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone and try to call Vash again, when movement to his right and the sound of footsteps caught his eye.

It was a girl--a woman, actually--walking towards him. The sky groaned and the clouds churned above, but Wolfwood didn't notice them. His attention was focused only on her.

She was tall, about his same height, and carried herself well: she walked with a bounce to her step and her head high. She was wearing office clothes, but they were in lighter colors--a soft white shirt and a pale blue skirt--not the severe black that he was used to seeing.

Something about her was free, childlike. He couldn't explain it, but he wanted to see her smile very much.

But what truly made him stare were her eyes. They were wide and open--a light blue color like a lake or a shallow pool.

Just then, accompanied by booming thunder, the rain began to fall. It splattered down in fat drops for a moment, and then slipped into narrow, needle-like darts that would soak through everything in seconds. Wolfwood craned his neck back to look up at the sky. A few drops caught in his eyes and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead. His cigarette was ruined and he let it drop from his mouth to join the pile at his feet.

Then suddenly all of his world and the sky above it were pink. With flowers and hearts. And a shiny handle held in a long-fingered hand.

"You'll get soaked, standing there like that in the rain, Nicholas."

He lowered his head. The woman from before was holding an umbrella over his head, smiling at him knowingly. He knew now why he had wanted to see her smile: it was worth waiting for.

She stood close to him, both of them shielded under the umbrella, shoulders brushing. He noticed that she smelled like lavender. It was a very distracting fragrance.

"I'm sorry," Wolfwood whispered as if anything too loud would break the spell cast by her perfume, "but do I know you?"

She pouted. "Awww," she said with mock sadness. "You forgot me? That's not very nice. I'll tell you what: you think hard, Nick. It'll come to you. Give it a try."

Wolfwood had things to do. He had calls to make and a partner to find. He had to catch a killer.

But what he did was stand right there, staring at the girl, getting lost in eyes like pools of ice. Because if he knew her, if they had met before, he wanted to remember. He wanted to remember everything.

The moments passed in silence like that with neither one minding the downpour around them nor the close proximity of their bodies.

And of the two standing beneath the umbrella, neither of them knew that off in the shadows, not so far away, closer than they could ever have know, someone was watching.

And what he saw, what he saw, what he saw...

It took his breath away.

He waited.

He wanted.

And somehow, watching from his dark corner of the world, he felt everything that made sense wither and die beautifully. He clutched at his throat, nails digging in and took steadying breaths.

He stared and stared as if his eyes were starving. How he stared.

But he wasn't looking at Milly...

To be continued...


	4. Deja Vu

Part VIII: Deja Vu

The rain pounded the pavement, the cars parked along the greying buildings, everything around them. They stayed dry.

Somewhere in his mind, Wolfwood knew that he probably looked ridiculous—dressed all in black as he was—standing beneath a pink umbrella decorated with flowers and hearts. But for some reason, that cynical, bitter part of his mind—the part that got him into bar fights from time to time—stayed quiet.

Perhaps it, too, was taken in by the smell of lavender, the soft gaze of blue eyes.

"Figured it out yet, or do you give up?" The mysterious girl smiled brightly at him.

Ever since she had first approached him and spoken, he had been wrestling with a feeling of _déjà vu_. Eyes like that, a sweet face like that, a voice like dripping honey. It was all too familiar, but nothing was coming to him.

It was a bothersome feeling because his memory was usually quite good. Vash always accused him of having a mind like a steel trap. Dates, names, obscure facts—Wolfwood remembered it all. His partner would probably laugh if he were here to see such an innocent-looking girl be the cause of such strain on his brain. Where was the steel trap now?

He shook his head once, firmly.

"Hmm...would it help to imagine me with braces?" she asked and raised an eyebrow.

Because he was desperate at this point, Wolfwood found himself humoring her. He looked at her cheery smile, white and unstained, and imagined rows of metal strung across them. And just like that, he could feel a memory tapping him excitedly on the shoulder.

His mouth opened, then snapped shut, and then opened again. A surprised look crossed his face.

"Holy...Milly? Milly Thompson?" He took a step back and examined her carefully.

"Ah, ha! So you do remember me!" She sounded triumphant as she tilted her head to one side.

He nodded, noticing that he couldn't stop smiling. Somehow, she hadn't changed. Not at all. Here she was, almost exactly as he remembered her: Milly Thompson from 10 years ago. And yet, at the same time, everything was different.

Back then she had had braces and her bangs had been too long, always falling into her eyes. She had reminded him of a puppy back then, loyal and innocent. Though she had been a terribly shy thing, she had smiled at everyone, almost as if she were willing them to like her. She would shuffle down the hallway, head up, wide-eyed and optimistic no matter what they called her. Wolfwood had always wondered if she had believed that they might realize what a good person she was if she smiled enough.

The woman before him now had come into her own. Perhaps there was a shy, awkward girl at her core, but this Milly was confident—confident enough to approach strange men on the street and share her umbrella with them. She was alive and warm, and Wolfwood felt drawn towards that heat.

"Milly Thompson, I can't believe it! How are you?" He wasn't usually one for small talk, but he didn't mind at the moment. Milly was a welcome breath of fresh air from a past that seemed much further away than he thought it should seem.

"I'm fine, fine," she replied and nodded her head like she was agreeing with herself. "Work keeps me busy." Her eyes drifted towards the alley and the police line. They caught on the grim outline in chalk on the ground. Though the rain had erased much of it, the shape still stood out. Her smile faltered and then fell away completely.

Wolfwood winced. He didn't like the idea of sweet Milly Thompson having to see a crime scene. She surprised him when she said, "So this is it? This is where she was murdered?"

He shook his head. "Yes. This is it. What are you doing here?"

Glad for the distraction, she turned to face him again. "Official duties!" she said.

"For your job? What kind of work do you _do_?"

"I work at an insurance company." She twisted the umbrella handle in her hands almost nervously and Wolfwood could feel a splash of rain across his neck. "One of our new clients is buying this area—everything for ten blocks in either direction. But with a murder..." she trailed off and let the implication stand.

Wolfwood had seen it before, insurance rates skyrocketing after a tragedy. Especially a very public one. He studied the buildings around them, sizing up their value. They weren't new, but they looked sturdy. Mainly, everything around here had a disused and outdated air. The sidewalks were cracked, the alleys covered in graffiti, and the streetlights flickered at night. He hadn't even known the area was for sale before Kelly's murder, and now he wondered what the buyer planned to do with it.

"I see," he said. "One murder and your company panics. So they sent you out here to take a look at the scene of the crime?"

"More or less," Milly said softly. Her eyes strayed again to the alley and then back to Wolfwood's face. "I was told to 'assess the proximity of this alley to the main road' and 'take note of any potential insurance-related concerns.'" She said all this with a mockingly deep voice, pursing her lips and pulling her brows downwards. It was the perfect imitation of a boss. Wolfwood could almost see his old station chief shining through Milly's young face. He found himself laughing.

"Pretty vague instructions."

Milly sighed. "Aren't they? The boss says he can tell from a map _where_ the murders happened, but that he wants a real understanding of how it _feels_."

"That's a lot of pressure for you. And if you say the area 'feels' unsafe, what will happen to your client's insurance rates? The rates you originally quoted?"

"Well…I can imagine him wanting to find another company, if you know what I mean."

Wolfwood could well imagine. Having a Picasso murder on your property—or soon to be property—was a sure-fire way to make the value of your land decline dramatically and the insurance plan covering it to cost more than you were willing to pay.

"Oh," said Milly suddenly, as if she just remembered something. "I'm being so rude! What are _you_ doing here, Nicholas? I haven't seen you in—"

"Ten years," Wolfwood finished.

"Ten years? So long! You haven't changed. You're taller," she said and rose to the tips of her toes, which made them almost the same height. She was probably used to being the tallest person around and she frowned a little that Wolfwood had a few inches on her.

"So are you," he said.

She glanced down at herself. "This? Oh, this is nothing! You should have seen me last year, I was taller."

He gave her a blank stare for several seconds and then burst out laughing. Somehow, only Milly could make a joke when they were standing in front of an alley where a girl was murdered.

"But seriously, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"Believe it or not, I'm working, too," he began then a ringing sound interrupted him.

"Sorry about this," he said. He fumbled in his jacket pocket. "Wolfwood," he barked into the phone, strangely irritated at having to stop his conversation with Milly to answer it.

"_Got your message," _Vash said, a smile in his voice. _"All seventy five of them."_

"Ha, ha," replied Wolfwood. He turned away from Milly a bit, but under the umbrella, there as no real chance of privacy. "I only left _three _messages and only because it was important. Where the hell were you?"

"_You assign me interviews and then yell at me for doing them. What can I do to please you, Wolfwood, dear?"_

"For starters, never call me that again. After that, pull up everything—absolutely _everything_—we have about number nine."

There was a pause on the other end and then Vash said, _"Angela Beasley? What's up?"_

"I've got a picture that you're going to want to see. Trust me. Once you get all those pulled and on my desk, get ready for a long night. We've got work to do." A note of guilt stained his voice. "Listen, Vash. I know you were set to leave early today and have tomorrow off but..."

Vash didn't miss a beat. _"It's not a problem; if you've got something, off days can wait. You coming in? Where are you?"_

Wolfwood glanced down at Milly who was politely averting her eyes to show she was trying not to eavesdrop. Sadly, there wasn't much around here to look at, so her eyes were trained on the alley.

"I ran into an old friend and I—"

"_What's her name?" _Vash asked, his voice like that of a thirteen-year-old boy talking about dirty magazines and who he saw kissing who.

Wolfwood gave a melodramatic sigh. Leave it to Vash to be too astute for Wolfwood's own good. "I'm not telling you. Butt out." 

"_When'dya meet her?"_

"High school," Wolfwood said through gritted teeth.

"_Is she pretty?"_

Wolfwood studied Milly's profile. "Yeah," he said softly.

"_When's the big day? Can I be your best man?"_

"Shut up. I'm on my way. I'll be there in...half an hour. Alright?"

"_Alright, alright," _Vash pouted._ "But you better be nicer to me or I'm not coming to Junior's first birthday party and that's final."_

"Shut up!" Wolfwood said and snapped the cell phone closed with more force than necessary. Milly turned away from the alley and looked at him, still smiling.

"Uh...sorry. That was my partner," he apologized.

Her head tilted to the side in what he was learning was a habit of hers, something she did when she was thinking. "Partner? Like...?"

"Yeah. Believe it or not, I'm a detective."

Her eyes widened and then swept up and down his lean frame. Perhaps, he thought, she was wondering if detectives usually wore so much black.

"A detective? But that's wonderful. Congratulations," she said before the implications struck her. Then she frowned. "But then...that means...you...?" She looked quickly at the alley and then back again, frown deepening.

"Yep, this is my case. For whatever that means." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't keep it all from tainting his voice. He was frustrated with his progress on this case and he was sure his whole precinct knew it. Now Milly knew, too.

"I'm sorry, Nicholas. This would be a tough job for anyone. Picasso isn't...normal." She shuddered visibly.

He nodded. He was used to handling highly-publicized cases, but there was certainly an air about the Picasso murders that lingered and left the public spooked.

"Sorry you have to deal with this," he said gesturing to the alley. "I really am."

"A job's a job," she said and smiled winningly. She made a small "Oh" sound again and moved the umbrella so that she could see the sky above. "The rain's stopping."

Wolfwood looked up, too. Sure enough, seconds after she said it, the downpour around them lessened before turning into drizzle that just as quickly stopped entirely. "Guess that's lucky since I have to head back now." He heard the note of regret creep into his voice, but couldn't stop it.

Milly closed the umbrella and let it hang at her side. "Oh, well then," she said simply.

"Well then," said Wolfwood. "I, ah...it was, ah, nice..."

"Yes, it was. We should see each other again sometime."

"That would be...ah..."

Milly reached in the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a pen and a small notepad. She wrote her name neatly and then a number beneath that. "Call me," she said before adding, "if you want."

Wolfwood took the piece of paper, folded it and slid it into the pocket of his slacks. "Thank you."

"And thank you. You'll be careful, Mr. Detective?"

"I'll...I'll try," he said in a nervous stutter. What was wrong with him, acting like a teenager?

She lifted a hand to gently squeeze his arm. "You do that," she said.

He turned on his heels and took a few steps away. He stopped. Something more needed to be said. He faced her again.

"Ah, Milly?"

"Yes?"

"Can I give you a ride?"

She beamed at him. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't work too far from here. And I have work to do so I'd better stay."

"Oh, right." He stared at his feet for a moment. "Well, listen. Don't...don't stay out here too long by yourself. Be careful."

"Why, Mr. Wolfwood, you're concerned about me! That's very sweet of you, but I'll be fine."

He nodded shortly and then seemed to decide to leave it at that. He didn't say another word as he left the cluster of greying buildings.

Milly stood and watched the whole time as Wolfwood hurried away; all but jogging down the lane and then turning left towards where his car was parked. The expression on her face was thoughtful, and not for the first time, she appeared far wiser than her years.

She turned back to the alley and studied it. Looking at the soaking, littered, dark corner of the city, a terrible chill like fingers grazing over the skin of her back made her shudder.

She moved off a while later, not wanting to stay and look at the grim scene.

* * *

Part IX: Detective

In the shadows, a man watched. He did not mind the sound of rats scurrying in the darker parts of the alley where he waited. He did not mind that the tattered awning he stood beneath provided poor cover from the rain and that he was almost soaked through to his bones. He was hidden, that was enough.

Besides, other things concerned him and they were all he could deal with at the moment.

All the papers, all the newscasters, all the cheap scandal magazines—they all called this man "Picasso." He liked the name well enough. After all, he appreciated art. No, he didn't understand it, didn't really like it. But he could appreciate art.

He had just found an example of it. Stumbled across it, actually. And his mind was whirling away, almost in a panic over what to do because this was not how things were supposed to happen.

The panic had begun when Milly had left her office and started to walk. He had not known where she was going. All he had known was that Milly should have been in her office, working before her big windows so that he could see her. Yet that annoying little man had sent her out, ruined her routine, left her walking the streets while the clouds threatened rain. Picasso had had no choice but to follow.

She had seemed so small beneath the high-rise buildings that crowded around her. She had not known he was there, behind her. But then, they never did. Not until it was too late.

The screaming of his brain had told him something was wrong when Milly took a familiar corner, and then another. He knew, yes he knew, that this area was very close to where his game with Kelly had come to an end. It was close enough that he imagined he could hear the sound of Kelly's heels on the pavement as she hurried, hopelessly, through the shadows.

And then it was there, ahead of him, that alley which he had not expected to see today. It was for seeing another time, when he needed to relive the feelings of that night. Now was not the time, not when he was playing a new game. It was wrong, all wrong.

He had felt a sweat break across his brow and beads of it drop down the ends of his hair onto his face and neck.

He had hidden easily, pushed his back against the wall, turned his head and kept his eyes open. He watched, he waited, always thinking, "Milly should not be here."

The situation spiraled downwards like a car thrown over a cliff when he realized for the first time that Milly was not alone. Someone was standing before that alley, his back facing him. This stranger was motionless, simply looking into the black maw of that space as if searching for secrets in the silence and darkness. It was then that the rain started.

And against all reason, his Milly—his perfect, perfect Milly—walked up to this man, this stranger, opened her umbrella, and spoke. The man called Picasso could not hear what she said, but would have done anything to have.

As he watched, the man turned to face Milly, his profile to Picasso.

The man dressed all in black, except for the clean white button-down worn beneath. At first glance, his clothing appeared casual, almost careless. But then one would noticed the shine of the shoes, the tailored cut of the suit, the ironed-in creases making the front of his slacks look as crisp as a folded sheet of paper. And then one could start to make guesses about what one could not see. There would be no dirt beneath this man's trimmed nails. There would be no holes in his socks. His hair only looked rumpled because he styled it that way.

Picasso registered all these details, but none of them seemed tangible or real.

He stopped breathing. Something went _pop_ inside him; something fluttered violently before his eyes. All the color was sucked from the world for just a moment, long enough for everything he knew to stop making sense.

Later, when Picasso tried to conjure up the moments just after the man turned and just before he found himself running almost blindly through the alley, he would recall nothing. No thoughts, no sensations. It was a floating kind of madness that seized him, one as intense as the moment just before a kill. The moment right after it. He was caught up in it, blinking in the glare of it, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking. He was lost.

No, when he thought about it later that night, nothing would become clear to him until he remembered that movement had caught his eyes. It had vaulted him from that empty space where he could only focus on one thing, and not because he tried to, but only because it was there and would not be ignored.

Quite suddenly, the man was walking away, and Milly was walking away, and Picasso felt a little tug from the back of his mind telling him to follow her, to not let her get away.

But his heart, his body, the panicked voice inside his skull, they told him to go the other way. To follow the man.

And maybe he knew then that it was because this man was different.

Picasso, standing there in his moment of indecision, wondered about the mind behind those eyes whose color he had not been able to discern. He found himself wondering what made him tick, just as he had wondered what made his darling Kelly tick, his darling Milly.

This man, with his long frame and his casual stance, this man who was a series of fascinating contradictions piled atop each other, this man with his sharp, calculating eyes. Looking at him brought to the surface of his mind thoughts that he had long put to sleep.

And so when this man walked away, separated from sweet Milly with her blue, blue eyes, Picasso was torn. He should follow her, that he knew. He needed to see her life, how she lived, how she worked. He craved it.

But somehow, he was disgusted with her. How she had smiled at the man in black and how he had fumbled all over himself for her. How she had touched his arm so intimately.

The decision seemed to make itself for him: when Milly disappeared from his sight, he did not follow her.

Instead, he took the path through the alley that the man had taken. He hurried, his feet splashing in the puddles on the ground. He didn't even spare a glance to where his Kelly had died.

He heard the sound of a car door closing and came to a halt, cautiously glancing around the corner of a building that fronted a parking lot. The man was inside a sleek, black car polished to a shine. He buckled up, backed out of the parking space, and turned out of the parking lot, heading away from where Picasso stood.

Picasso's eyes narrowed, studying the distinct logo adhered to the back window of the man's car.

His breathing was still too fast, his mind still fevered. The shield-shaped sticker on the man's car did not calm him at all.

"J.C.P.D." he read aloud.

_A cop_, his mind supplied.

"No," he countered. "A detective."

And for some reason that even he could not say, Picasso smiled.

To Be Continued...

Whew. Wow. Done and done. So, sorry about this chapter: please forgive the excessive passive voice. But they're finally out of that damn alley and now we can get to the good stuff. From now on, the creepy stuff starts to happen and the story should get fun in a naughty kind of way.

And again, thanks to everyone keeping up with this! It means a lot to this old, fanfiction veteran.


	5. Bennigan and Strife

* * *

Part X: Bennigan and Strife

* * *

Wolfwood took a sharp right turn, past the security booth, waved to the chubby security officer inside, and then felt a sense of relief as the familiar sight of his parking spot came into view. 

What surprised him was the figure standing beside it. Wolfwood raised his eyebrow, shook his head, and then shut off the engine. The concerto music stopped blaring when he opened the door and then shut it gently.

"What are you doing out here?" Wolfwood grumbled.

"Nothing special."

Vash was all smiles as he came to stand next to Wolfwood.

"You know, you've got a real strange sense about time," Wolfwood said, lighting a cigarette. "I can't find you when I need you and then I pull into the parking lot and you're just _there_."

"Just figured you'd need some help carrying things is all," said Vash with a shrug. "And a friendly ear."

Grey smoke wreathed around Wolfwood's head as he leveled a considering look at Vash. "And did I tell you I had things to carry?"

"Is this door unlocked?" Vash asked, ignoring the question. He opened the back door of the car and started lifting out the photo albums that Lisa Morgan had given Wolfwood.

Wolfwood gave up. He dropped his half-finished cigarette onto the ground and then stomped it out with his foot. Then he opened the front door again and retrieved the photo off the seat, holding it carefully. Once everything was retrieved from the car, he pressed the autolock on his keychain and took a few of the albums from Vash. With their arms full, they strode towards the elevator that would take them into the station.

Vash leaned over to look at the photo on top of Wolfwood's stack of photo albums.

"Is this what you had to show me?"

"Yeah, recognize the girl?"

"That's Kelly and Angela, Picasso's ninth victim. So that's why I had to get out all those files? They knew each other."

"It's more than that, take a look at the building in the back," Wolfwood said. They had come to a halt in the parking garage before the elevators. He pushed the button for the second floor and waited while Vash thought.

"It's a hotel," he said. "It's the hotel Angela visited right before she died. And if Kelly stayed there, too..."

The elevator came and they stepped inside. Wolfwood shrugged. "It's not much of a lead, but it's something. I'll take what I can get. God knows I don't want to do this for another summer."

Vash looked at him for a long time. Wolfwood deliberately ignored him and the expression on his face--a mix between concern and something else--and stared at the numbers as they lit up. The elevator, he decided, was far, far too small.

Once out of the elevator, the quiet of the parking garage ended and the chaos of the station began. The detectives were jostled and knocked into as they tried to navigate through the crowded clustering of desks and bodies with their arms laden. Wolfwood got the oddest feeling that the entire station was staring at him, but tried not to think about it. He had work to do, which meant he needed to get through the insanity that was the police station on a busy afternoon first.

A couple of prostitutes, each of them in a strange assortment of animal prints and hot pink, winked at Vash while one of them ran her tongue around her lips suggestively, eyeing Wolfwood hungrily.

"Hey, I got a thing for detectives," she said. "You look hung. Can you go all night?"

Midvalley was the arresting officer. He sat behind an overloaded desk and shuffled through some papers then shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Sure he can, lady. And don't forget the handcuffs with him, either. Hear he's got a thing about 'em." He laughed at this and gave Wolfwood a playful look.

"Funny, funny," Wolfwood sighed. He sounded like someone who had heard the same kind of joke over and over and now couldn't even be bothered to care.

Vash was giving him concerned looks again, so Wolfwood picked up his pace and wrestled his way through the bustle of the station until he was before his office door. It took a bit of work to get the door open, but he managed after a few moments.

He and Vash set the albums on top of the filing cabinet beneath the windows. They both stared at them for a moment. There were so many of them, all in different states of age and cleanliness. One of them had a big stain on the front as if someone had spilled a glass of water on it and then let it sit for a long time before noticing. Some of them had covers that were barely hanging on.

He wondered if he flipped though the pages, if he would find Picasso somewhere, staring up at him. Would he pass right by him and not know? Had he ever passed him on the street, in the grocery store, in line at the post office and simply let him walk away?

And were these photos the lead they needed to finally catch him? If so, it was going to take time and energy he wasn't sure he had to spare. Wolfwood stood there for a while, thinking about all the work they now had to do and was pretty sure Vash, standing beside him, was thinking the same.

He was proved wrong when Vash asked, quietly, "Don't you ever get tired of the jokes?"

Wolfwood hadn't been expecting the question. Especially not from Vash. Vash was the one person he could trust to never mention it, never bring it up. The fact that he had hit him like a punch to the stomach. He suddenly felt very tired.

"Hell, I don't know," he said, rubbing at his face with more force than necessary. "People are gonna joke, right? I'm not gonna stop them."

Vash waited a moment before saying, "But they don't understand. They don't know what you went through. They don't know the whole st--"

"They don't need to know the whole story, Vash," Wolfwood interrupted, turning to look his partner in the eye. They stood there for a stretched, uncomfortable moment, looking at each other. Vash's eyes were just as serious as Wolfwood's and neither one would look away.

"It's in the past, Vash," Wolfwood said. He could feel his anger rising to the surface, knew at any second that he would snap and start to yell at his partner.

Vash looked away first. "No, it's not. Not for you. And that's the problem, isn't it? You won't let go and it won't let you go."

Wolfwood felt his breathing deepen, felt his fists clenching at his sides. "Shut. Up."

Vash looked at him with a sad expression on his face and said nothing for a moment and then, "I'm going to get us some coffee and then we can start on the files. I left them on your desk like you asked. Need anything while I'm out?"

Wolfwood shook his head. He watched as Vash walked stiffly away, but didn't move from the spot before the window. The glow he had had from talking to Milly was now completely gone. Her number was a warm reminder in his pocket, but it didn't fight the chill that held him. It was the same chill, mixed with something that he refused to acknowledge, that had tortured him for over three years.

He didn't like it, but wondered if he could go on without it. And Vash was a living, breathing reminder of it all. He'd never be able to forget as long as his partner was alive.

He still hadn't moved when Vash returned with two paper cups of coffee. "Well," said Vash, "looks like the files will have to wait: the chief wants to see you."

Wolfwood still couldn't speak to his partner, wasn't sure how he was going to be able to work with him at all today. He moved to the door, only nodding his understanding when Vash said, "I'll get started on all of this, see if I can find anything."

Wolfwood hardly noticed the noise of the station as he drifted through it, like a zombie, like a ghost. And here it was, the office of the chief. He gave the secretary a weak smile.

"He's expecting you, detective," she said and then gestured towards the door. Wolfwood didn't imagine the sympathetic look on her face.

He took a calming breath at the door. Stepping inside was like going to his own funeral. He was already angry enough.

The office was not tidy. It never was. The cleanest thing in the place was the windows and only because a crew came and scrubbed them once a week. The rest of the room was coffee stains, wads of tissue scattered here and there. One wall was a hectic collection of wanted posters, some of them of criminals that had been caught months ago. They overlapped and crowded in on each other, the opposite of the wall in Wolfwood's office, which was a neat, chronological arrangement. He turned away from it quickly to look at the man who stood behind the cluttered desk, arms crossed and face stern.

"Have a seat," said chief Bennigan.

"No thanks, chief."

"Have. A. Seat."

Wolfwood sat, all too aware of the heated bubbling beneath his skin. This was going to get ugly. He was in no mood for this today.

"It's very good of you to come," said another voice. Wolfwood hadn't noticed it when he entered, but a short figure was standing in the shadows near the shuttered window. Wolfwood squinted into the darkness to see their face.

"This is Strife, she's with PR," said Bennigan. He gestured and the woman moved from the shadows. Wolfwood stood to shake her hand.

"Wolfwood," he introduced himself. "Officer Strife?"

She smiled. "Please, call me 'Meryl.' It's an honor to meet you, detective."

Wolfwood waved this away and sat, offering the seat beside him to Meryl. It wasn't his office to be offering seats, but it was fun watching the vein pop out on Bennigan's neck.

"Shall I get you some coffee while you're here, too?" the chief said through his teeth.

"If it wouldn't be too much of a hassle," said Wolfwood. Bennigan slammed a thin finger onto a button on the phone. "Coffee," he barked into the speaker.

While they waited, Wolfwood took in the appearance of the woman called Meryl, who sat quietly beside him. She looked as if she had been born fully grown and prepared for office work. From her polished shoes to the precise cut of her suit, this woman meant business.

The secretary stole into the room, handed out coffee, gave Wolfwood an encouraging wink, and then stole away again. She shut the door very quietly as if she feared making any loud noises when the chief was like this.

Bennigan did not sit. Instead, he stood before the widows, silhouetted by the light that squeezed through the blinds. His back was rigid, his head down.

"Where have you been all morning, detective?" he asked in a calm voice that was deceptive.

"I went to speak with Lisa Morgan, the mother of the latest victim. Then I visited the crime scene again. If you needed me, you could have tried my cell phone."

Bennigan was silent. "Oh, real cute," he said after a time. "Your cell phone? When you should have been in your goddamn office? Cute."

He paused for a moment and then said, "But from your reports, I'm to understand that your clown of a partner already questioned Morgan's mother."

"That's correct, sir," said Wolfwood. "And don't insult my partner. It's not a good idea." He added, "Sir," belatedly.

Meryl stole a glance at him, her expression shocked, as if she couldn't believe he would speak to a superior that way.

"Oh...so we're tough enough to threaten me, then? Okay, okay. Fine." Bennigan gave a forced laugh and said, "And when, may I ask, has it been the policy of this department to question a victim's family multiple times if they're not a primary witness or capable of giving us anything useful to catch the fucking perp?" His voice had risen steadily as he spoke and Wolfwood could see Meryl stiffen in her chair beside him. He couldn't blame her. The chief was a big guy and his voice boomed like thunder, like explosives.

Wolfwood took another deep breath, but found it didn't help much. "With all due respect, chief, Kelly's mother requested to speak with me and it's just good manners to treat her as more than a one-time-use bit of information. If she needs to talk to me, I'll be there anytime. And she _has_ provided us with _useful _evidence."

"Oh, has she?" Bennigan turned from the window then, snatched a pile of newspapers off his desk and threw them down before Wolfwood. "Well while you were getting your useful evidence, I've had to deal with _this_."

The front page showed a grainy image of an alley that Wolfwood was very familiar with and a few scattered images of victims past, girls who had died before he had even come to this department.

Wolfwood looked down at the headline:

**PICASSO STILL ON THE LOOSE: "HE'S NOT HUMAN," POLICE SAY**

_Tuesday, The killer known as "Picasso" continues to elude police. The body of Kelly Morgan, 19, was found Wednesday in an alley near the July Business Plaza. Morgan's neck had been broken, though an anonymous source in the police revealed that the cause of death was a ruptured heart. "He's not human," said the source. "WhatPicasso can do is not normal. Morgan's heart...exploded." There were, apparently, no external influences that could have caused this reaction._

_Polls have revealed that faith in the department's ability to capture Picasso has declined drastically. Some neighborhoods have begun forming task forces, citing their rights as citizens to defend themselves. Members of one such task force were arrested last Monday for attacking a man who they claimed "looked suspicious." Similar incidents have increased citywide, due largely to the fact that Morgan's death appears to be supernatural in nature._

_When contacted, police officials gave assurances, promising that they were doing all they could to capture the serial killer. Picasso has been active for well over four years, killing during the summer and then vanishing during the winter months. The bodies of his victims are usually disfigured, as was the case with Morgan whose head was facing backwards._

Wolfwood flipped through the rest of the papers. Every headline, every top story, every editorial concerned Picasso and the fact that Kelly had died because her heart appeared to have burst on its own. The heart of a perfectly healthy girl.

He threw the stack back onto the desk. He'd had enough. "So you've got yourself a leak. Tough. So the people are scared; they have every right to be. You can't expect them to--"

"What I _expect_, lieutenant," the chief spat, "is that when our department is _forced _to accommodate some hotshot rookie with a fancy reputation and his even greener partner, that they can prevent things like _this_ from happening."

Wolfwood clenched his fists. "Things like _this_? It's a newspaper, for God's sake, they'll write what they want!"

"Yes, but now we've got a ghost story on top of it all? I thought I made it clear that I didn't want the particular details of this murder released to the public. This case was high profile before, now we've got people thinking this sicko is some kind of...monster! This is your case, so this is _your_ leak. You fix it, and you fix it good."

Wolfwood couldn't stop a bitter laugh from slipping past his lips. "Are you kidding me?" He stood, slamming his hands onto the desk before him. The stack of papers and books and the messy line of picture frames rattled. "I wasn't transferred here to make sure you came out smelling like a daisy. You've got a leak. It's not my problem. It's..." he turned and gestured towards the woman who had sat silently through the whole exchange. "It's her department's responsibility to handle things like this. I'm a detective."

Bennigan's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, you're a detective. But you're more than that, aren't you? You're the department's Golden Boy. You're the man who can solve it all. Look at _me_!" he said, spreading his arms wide. "It took _me_ years to claw my way up from patrolman to sergeant. And then years and years of hard work later the bastards on high finally said, 'Okay, here you go, you can be a lieutenant now' and I thought that was fine. Just fine.

"I didn't mind that it took me fifteen years to do it and another five after that to finally become a sergeant and then _another_ three to become captain and _another_ four to become chief. I didn't mind. Because that's the way the world works."

He glared at Wolfwood. "But not for you. No, you did what nobody else can do. You went through the ranks like _that_," he said, snapping his fingers once, the sound loud in the quiet room. "You're what, 27 years old? And a detective lieutenant? That's impossible and you know it."

The two men exchanged scowls across the desk. "I've been a cop longer than you've been alive, boy. So you're the superstar," the chief said. "You deal with this shit."

"What do you expect me to do?" Wolfwood growled.

"That's where Strife comes in," Bennigan said, nodding his head towards the woman.

She stood, looking very small beside the men. "We, the personnel in PR, I mean, have been fielding even more questions regarding Picasso for well over a year now. And we've kept a tight lid on everything as we were requested to do," she said. "The leak is definitely not from one of mine."

Wolfwood had a bad feeling about this. He remembered very well his first month at this department when he had sent out quite a few letters, memos and requests indicating that any information regarding the investigating officers working on the Picasso case were to be kept out of the papers. He had had his reasons and he still stood by them. It was all too clear that things were about to change and that he wouldn't like it when they did.

"The problem is that...there are...some _people_ who believe the public would like some reassurances. From someone they trust. It would have to be through a venue with a widespread audience. A press conference. An interview. Something like that. There are some officials who believe this would help lessen the public panic."

Wolfwood rubbed his face hard. "So what you're _really_ saying is that the commissioner doesn't like me being on the payroll if I don't live up to my reputation and catch the big bad wolf? You want me to smile for the cameras and tell everyone it's going to be okay now because I'm around?"

She looked somewhat embarrassed and coughed into her hand. "It wouldn't hurt things to have the public know exactly _who_ is working on this case. It would put some fears to rest."

"And what else?" Wolfwood said in a voice that was barely a whisper. His eyes were trained on the chief.

"You tell them that it was all a big mix up," the older man growled. "You tell them that Picasso is flesh and blood just like the rest of us. You tell them Morgan had her fucking neck snapped and nothing else. You show that million-dollar mug of yours as often as necessary to make the noise die down."

It took a moment to force his nails out of his palm. When he finally managed it, Wolfwood said, "And when I'm running around covering a leak that is your department's fault--something that never happened out east, just so you know--how am I gonna have the time to work on the Picasso case and the five other homicide cases I'm dealing with right now?"

The chief leaned close to Wolfwood, so close that Wolfwood could see the stubble on his chin and smell the coffee on his breath. A malicious grin spread across his face.

"Oh, Golden Boy, I'm sure you can work that out. I've heard you don't mind putting in the extra work for your cases. Long hours. Hectic schedules. Hell, I've heard you're willing to do all _kinds_ of things to catch the bad guy. Heard you don't mind dealing with a little _pain_ to get things done, either. Heard maybe you even _like _it. Heard you _like it_ quite a lot. All sorts of ways."

Wolfwood didn't know it was going to happen. Suddenly, his fist was in the chief's teeth.

He heard Meryl gasp and then stumble backwards into her chair. She scrambled out of it and stood across the room. Her eyes were wide with panic.

Bennigan went down. His torso slammed into the desk. He slipped on spilt coffee and blood when he pushed himself up, his arms shaking. The look on his face was a mix between fury and disbelief.

"I'll have your badge for that," he said. The blood on his teeth looked thick and vile.

Wolfwood turned and walked away, already feeling the bruises forming on his knuckles and the blood coating them.

"Yeah, you tell the commissioner you're taking my badge. You go ahead and tell him and see what he says." He stopped at the door. "Meryl," he said, but the girl was staring at the blood dripping from the chief's face and didn't react. "Officer Strife," he said with more force.

"Yes, lieutenant?" she gasped and whirled to face him. She looked terrified.

"Contact me when you're ready to do this," he said with the last shred of patience he could manage.

"Yes, sir."

He tried not to slam the door, but it rattled loudly anyway. The secretary jumped in surprise.

"Detective..." she began, but let it drop when she saw the blood on his knuckles and the splatters of it on his jacket.

He walked back to his office as if in a trance. Everything was a blur of light and sounds that were old and terrible but wouldn't go away and there was a taste in his mouth that he didn't like and his heart wouldn't stop and his mind wouldn't stop and Vash was right about everything: it wouldn't let him go, it kept coming, kept coming, kept coming.

"Hey, lieutenant. Detective!"

He stopped in the middle of the floor, turning to face the voice that had called him.

It was a young patrolman by the name of Evers. He was holding a couple dollars and looked like he was having a good time. There were two other cops sitting next to him, each one looking more cheerful than they had rights to look in a police station.

"Hey, detective, wow, where were you just now? You were, like, on another planet," Evers said and shared a laugh with the others around him. "Have you got minute? You're the only one who'll know the answer to this one, so d'ya mind helping us settle a bet?"

"What is it?" Wolfwood answered mechanically. He wanted to get away, but wanted to act normally, didn't want to arouse suspicions, to let anyone know...

"See, we were talking about serial killers, your speciality, right?"

Wolfwood tried not to flinch.

Evers continued. "And then someone asked this question, but none of us knows for sure. So, how many victims did the Leatherman Killer have before you caught him?"

Evers pointed to a stocky cop perched on the desk beside him. "Byers and me say 22, but," he pointed at another, sandy-haired cop who was eyeing Wolfwood with wide eyes and a goofy half-grin, "Craig here says we're wrong."

Wolfwood closed his eyes and forced the bile down his throat. The flashes came, brightly. Lights, music like roaring typhoons, bodies crushing together, crushing against him, the smell of sweat drying on leather.

The snap of a whip. Again, again, again.

He opened his eyes. "It was 21," he answered quietly.

"No way," said Evers. "I remember reading about this and it was 22. I'm sure I heard that somewhere."

Wolfwood shook his head. "No, it was 21," he managed.

The flashes worsened. The floor was too loud, too bright.

"You sure?" asked Evers, looking disappointed.

Wolfwood swallowed and said, "Yes. One of them got away," before turning and all but running away, pushing his way through the crush of bodies, frantic.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Detective, are you all right?"

"Detective, the commissioner's on the phone and he says..."

He ran.

He made it to the bathroom in time.

He vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach and then he dry heaved, sweat pouring down his face though his body felt ice cold.

And then he sat there, and sat there, leaning against the cool tile, trying to forget.

To be continued...


	6. Vash

To apologize for the super-long time in-between posts, this chapter is longer. Much longer! Sorry about the delay, guys.

Reminder of the Warnings: OOC, AU, strong language, violence, sexual themes, not beta read

* * *

Part XI: Memories

* * *

_"Wolfwood! God, Wolfwood! Nicholas!"_

_He tried to whisper, but panic made his voice high and loud. It echoed off the dirty walls like a voice in a cave. Vash slipped on the blood--so much of it--already feeling ill because he knew whom it belonged to. He _knew_. His wild eyes darted constantly to the door. Light came from the crack beneath it and he watched it, afraid it might darken. It and the glow from a dying streetlight struggling in weakly from the grimy window was the only light in the midnight black room. The faint glow streaked across Wolfwood's skin, revealing a gruesome pattern._

_"You have to get up," he tried again and struggled to rise, tugging at the weak body in his arms. He jumped at what sounded like a floorboard creaking and looked back at the door. But it was nothing. Nothing._

_Wolfwood leaned forward, resting his head at the junction of Vash's neck and shoulder. He moaned and gave a weak cough. "Hello," he whispered._

_Vash jerked at the feel of lips against his neck. "We've got to get out of here, do you understand?"_

_"Nah. Stay."_

_Vash's heart stopped for a moment, a tiny lifetime. He stared at the cuts and welts on Wolwood's tanned skin, the ones dripping blood rhythmically onto the floor. Then he stared down at the leather wound around his wrists, at the collar around his neck pulled too tightly._

_"Nick, you have to get up right now."_

_He froze then because he had heard them: footsteps. His heartbeat sped like a bullet train, his eyes widened, and he turned to see what he already knew: the light beneath the door had darkened. _

_"Get up, get up, get up!" he gasped, his sweating fingers fumbling everything. His heartbeat and Wolfwood's were all he could hear, though his voice echoed around the room. "Please!" he begged._

_The door opened, light streaming in..._

Wolfwood opened his eyes and the memory took its place in the back of his mind where it belonged. Quiet, but never forgotten. Like a cancer, it waited, growing. And he knew: one day it would eat away at him till nothing was left. From the inside.

* * *

Part XII: Vash

* * *

When Vash came for him, two hours later, Wolfwood was better. On the outside, at least. His hands weren't shaking anymore and his breathing was deep and easy. The cool tile against his back felt nice, the fluorescent lights of the bathroom comforting because they were so mundane, so normal. 

"Planning on moving in?" Vash asked and knocked twice on the stall door. The barrier of that door between them muffled his playful voice. Wolfood leaned forward and unlocked the stall. Vash pulled the door open and leaned on the frame, staring at where his partner sat on the floor against the wall, legs pulled underneath him almost casually, as if he were relaxed. His face--pale and rough--made it clear he was anything but.

"Monopolizing the handicapped stall?" Vash said with a mockingly indignant voice. "You should be ashamed."

Wolfwood cracked a grin. "So they sent the cavalry?" His voice sounded stripped raw and painful. He wouldn't look at Vash.

"No, the cavalry just came. I think everyone else is scared to even look for you. You can be pretty bitchy when you're in one of your moods."

It was the kind of insult that should have gotten Wolfwood yelling and cursing and talking faster than an Evangelical priest on Sunday. It didn't work today. Wolfwood was silent, his words locked up and hidden with everything else. And still he kept his eyes away from Vash. If anyone didn't know better, it would look as if he were staring at the toilet across the stall from him as if it were fascinating. Vash suspected he wasn't seeing anything at all. Or at least nothing in the room with them, happening at the same time. Wolfwood's was far, far away, stuck in a world three years gone.

Vash was left with nothing to do but study his partner's form and wait. It wasn't an enjoyable activity. Wolfwood seemed crumpled and worn thin like aged leather, a sight Vash never wanted to see again. The dark-haired man hardly even blinked, just gazed ahead, unseeing and silent. Anyone else faced with a conversational stonewall like this might have given up. Vash didn't. He waited, loyal like a dog, infinitely patient.

"Bit of a switch, isn't it?" Wolfwood said, finally ending the stretched moment of quiet.

Vash laughed, but only he noticed that it sounded relieved. "Yeah. Yeah. Usually you're the one standing here and I'm the one crouching down there, losing his lunch. Funny."

"Funny," Wolfwood repeated. The sound of him taking a steading breath echoed slightly off the walls of the bathroom that was clean and well-cared for, but hardly new. Cracks in the ceiling and the sink gave away its age. It had the same air of faded stability that the rest of the station carried with defiant grace.

"So am I suspended, fired, or what?"

Vash shifted against the doorframe. "Not hardly, but the chief went to the emergency room. You got him good. He needed stiches on the _inside_ of his mouth."

"The inside? Damn. And he was a bastard to deal with _before_. Now he'll be impossible."

"Well, you could learn to control your temper," Vash said, looking down to where blood was still caked to Wolfwood's hand. Wolfwood looked down too, paused, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"I could," he said as he pushed himself up. He rose to his feet and faced his partner, "but where's the fun in that?"

He went to the sink, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and decided not to do that again anytime soon. Things were catching up to him and making themselves known in the worry lines around his mouth and the creases in his forehead. He was too young for all this shit.

He washed his hands three times before he was satisfied that he couldn't see the blood. Then he rinsed his mouth out until he couldn't taste the acid of vomit. Vash waited though the exercise, a calm presence by his side. It was so normal, so comforting, Wolfwood didn't even wonder about it anymore. It was the way things were. Maybe it was the way things were supposed to be.

Once he had splashed water on his face and dried his hands on the rough paper towels the station provided, the two of them walked out together, making their way towards Wolfwood's office by silent agreement.

The station was quieter than before. The noiseless waves that often came with evening was finally sweeping through the over-bright area, bringing a sense of tranquility. As they passed, a few cops stole glances at the two of them, but looked away quickly, reluctant to be caught. Wolfwood was certain the rumors from today would follow him forever.

His office was lit up brightly, folders stacked on his desk and pictures stacked on top of those. One album was open beside them, its warped cover open and glossy pictures staring up at the ceiling. The rest of them still sat where they had been left hours before. Vash had been busy in his absence. He could imagine him working steadily through the hours until worry sent him out to find his partner only to hear the worst.

Outside through the windows, the dark greeted Wolfwood, the sound of cars rumbling past and people laughing loudly on the street proof that life kept going on despite it all.

"It's been a long day," Wolfwood said. His voice was a soft sound meant to preserve the nighttime spell of silence.

"Yeah. It has," Vash said, hesitating in the door behind him. "We can call it a night. All of this will still be here tomorrow."

"Picasso will still be here tomorrow, too."

Vash winced but then steadied himself. "That's true, but we won't be able to catch him after one day of looking through old files and photo albums. Go home, Nick. Get some sleep."

The sigh that slipped through Wolfwood's lips was a long-suffering one. It was almost too melodramatic, but neither man commented on it. "What are you, my mother? Okay. Fine. You win. Happy?"

"Of course." Wolfwood heard the rustle of fabric as Vash made to leave. He turned and watched him, his lanky form almost impossible.

As if sensing his eyes on him, Vash stopped and spoke over his shoulder. "If it gets to be too much, you know where I am."

And then he was gone. His long strides took him down the way towards his own office and out of Wolfwood's sight.

Wolfwood stared after him for the briefest moment, then fished for his keys, shut off the lights to his office and left.

It was a dull end to the day, and one he was glad for. Any more surprises would have been too much.

But sleep brought nothing but more nightmares. He tossed in his bed and tried to make them go away. They were too vivid and too detailed and all the worse because they weren't really dreams. They were memories. The sound of Vash's screams echoed through his mind all night. And when they finally stopped, only the sound of a single, echoing gunshot filled the void.

He awoke so early the sun would have thought he was crazy. He didn't trust himself with a razor and food sounded like just the thing to make his stomach shrivel and die. So he had a mug of coffee so thick and strong it resembled tar, and drove to work in a foggy half-daze.

Catcalls and whistles greeted him in the morning along with a fair share of jokes and taunts. An elderly sergeant hummed a low, funeral dirge as he passed. He signed himself somberly, trying not to laugh.

"If it isn't the prize fighta!" someone called from across the room. There were scattered rounds of applause.

Urged on by the laughter, the joker added, "Ohhh, fight fans! It's a right hook and Bennigan goes _down_!"

"Wanna guess how many stiches?" Midvalley asked as he passed by him, elbowing him like a kid on the playground. He pulled up short when he got a look at Wolfwood's face.

"Damn. You look _rough_. I...I don't think I've ever seen you with stubble before."

He stroked his own clean-shaven chin and contemplated. "Hey, the clean freak didn't shave!" he exclaimed to anyone who would listen.

"First time for everything," someone grumbled, but they too looked surprised.

"He probably got wasted thinking he was gonna get fired!" a rookie patrolman answered with a wink.

Wolfwood grinned widely, his eyes promising mischief. "Nah, fellas, I just spent the night celebrating. If you were wondering where your wife was last night, Midvalley, don't worry. She was in _good_ hands."

Midvalley's face fell, but the rest of the precinct had a long laugh. Wolfwood, for all they knew, was probably going to lose his badge for the stunt he pulled, but they had to admit it was good to see him in a better mood.

Wolfwood endured the teasing all the way to his office. But once he was inside, he closed the door and stared at the space with eyes that were wide open and sharp. He felt some kind of electricity thrumming through him. It was a new determination, a burst of fresh resolve. He was ready to work.

He sat at his desk, reached for a file and devoured it with his eyes. He felt that he was reading everything anew, seeing things for the first time though he had read them all before. Something dogged his heels, pushed him on. The dark dreams, the unwanted reminders chased him and only the files before him and the looming presence of the wall kept them at bay. Occasionally, he glanced up at the grim decoration before him. The wall. It was the same as ever save for the new photos of Kelly added to the end. But looking at them, he got the oddest sensation that something was about to give.

Ducking his head, he returned to the words that patterned the pages in black and white and the newspaper clippings that added shades of gray.

He was so absorbed that he jumped when the familiar double knock interrupted him. Vash walked in, yawning fiercely. There were two greasy bags of food hanging from one hand and two sodas balanced on the other. Only then did Wolfwood realize that it was past lunchtime and that food didn't sound half bad.

"They say you were in here at the butt crack of dawn. Are you crazy?" He tossed one of the bags onto a clear section of Wolfwood's desk and then draped his long body in the chair across from it, opening the second with a hungry look on his face. He dug in happily to his own greasy burger.

Wolfwood carefully sat everything aside before joining him. "Thanks," he said, lifting a French fry in a salute before shoving it in his mouth.

"Seen the chief?" Vash asked, mouth stuffed full.

"No."

"Going to?"

"No."

"Ever going to apologize?"

"No."

"How are the fries?"

"Good."

Then they were comfortably silent, finishing off burgers and slurping their too-sweet sodas. Vash was deliberately avoiding the nasty issue lying at the slimy heart of all the trouble, and Wolfwood was all too grateful for it. Vash wasn't trying to ask about yesterday and what had upset Wolfwood enough to send him to the bathroom to vomit up all three meals. He wasn't trying to talk about the past or the shadows that lurked there, waiting.

In fact, instead of talking about what Wolfwood was sure he wanted to, Vash asked about the case, a safer topic.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked, crumpling wrappers and shoving them back into the greasy bag.

"I did. Look at that," Wolfwood said, pointing to a file.

Vash took it and skimmed quickly, careful to keep his salty fingers away from the clean paper.

"This is the one who went on vacation, right? To the coast?"

"She stayed at a Good Rest for three nights. Her name was Wanda King. She was number--"

"Three," Vash finished. His brows dipped as he thought. "So that means..."

"So that _means_ victims three, nine, and sixteen all have a hotel connection within one to three years of their murders," Wolfwood said and leaned back far in his seat. He teetered there for a minute then said on a sigh, "But it's thin. Very, very thin. It's like saying, 'Three of the victims had sandwiches within six months of their murders.' It's not a lead, it's a goose chase."

"But who knows?" Vash asked optimistically. "Maybe there's more. You never know what we'll find now that we have this connection to consider. With a little more searching, maybe something will turn up. We could pull...everything."

Both pairs of eyes strayed to the file cabinet in the corner and then to the phone perched precisely on Wolfwood's desk. Twin looks of horror erupted on their faces. Detailed records were just a few steps and a phone call away, but...

"We'll never, ever sleep again," Vash sighed and dropped his head onto his arms.

"Hah," Wolfwood laughed. "Sleep is for the weak."

* * *

Meryl Strife did not like to waste time. She didn't dawdle or dither. She planned, she carried through. Wolfwood had been able to tell from the moment he first met her that she thrived on knowing and preparing details. Her life revolved around them. 

Which is why that evening found him in her office, arranging a press conference that he did not want to do at all. Vash had returned to his own office shortly before Wolfwood's meeting with Meryl to make some calls and chase a paper trail related to a different case. Wolfwood actually envied him. After a day hunched over papers and talking his throat raw going over fruitless theories with Vash, getting out of the office had sounded good. And it might have been if only it were to discuss something else. With someone who reminded him a little less of a drill sergeant.

"You've done this many times before, so you know how things are done," she said, making it a statement, not a question. Wolfwood nodded and shuffled through the papers she had handed him when he first arrived.

Her office was in the bowels of the station, tucked somewhere behind other departments that were easily overshadowed by the policemen they serviced. It and the other offices and cubicles in the Public Relations department were not very telling. Looking around the room Wolfwood found no hints about Meryl's personal life, her interests, or anything beyond the fact that she worked in the PR department.

There were posters hanging on the walls about politeness and courtesy and how to deal with the press.

"The place is the front steps of the station since there's another conference happening there later. We're just borrowing their set-up a few hours before they use it. I'll need you there with bells on at ten. Does that fit with your schedule?"

"I'm flexible," Wolfwood answered, still looking through the papers. He studied them so intently that Meryl became irritated by his divided attention, her young face growing stern.

"Are you looking for anything specific?" she asked suspiciously.

"A way out of this damn press conference," he answered.

She sighed. "I'm afraid that that's not possible. Please, detective. It's for the good of everyone concerned. You can quiet the rumors, put the public at ease, and...well, maybe that's all. But that should be reason enough to cooperate."

He lowered the papers and looked at her. "Did it ever occur to you that there are reasons why I wanted to stay out of the public eye?"

Meryl frowned at his dangerous tone of voice, no doubt remembering what he had done to the chief. "I assume you have reasons that you think are valid--" she said.

"Oh, they're plenty valid, believe me."

"--but at this point, with the public ready to take the law into their own hands, I'm sure those reasons can be forgotten."

Wolfwood shrugged his shoulders. "Fine then. Ten in the morning tomorrow. I'll be there." He thanked her then stood, which prompted her to do the same. "Thank you for your time, detective. Please be careful tomorrow," she said. "Chief Bennigan and the commissioner want this taken care of promptly. Please cooperate."

He looked down at the papers in his hand, one of them a list of things he was and was not allowed to say. He lifted his eyes to Meryl and she had to hide a shudder. "I'll be a boy scout," he said then left without a backwards glance.

Meryl slumped down onto her seat and rested her forehead in her hand. She looked like someone who had walked away from a battlefield, not a meeting. It was a minute before she was able to sit up and get back to work, but her mind wouldn't leave it alone. She congratulated herself on being professional through the entire meeting, but it had been a struggle.

Just like every cop in the district--maybe the whole country--she knew Nicholas D. Wolfwood by reputation. And any cop with a reputation like _that_ was bound to be the topic of gossip. Meryl had heard her fair share of it. The officers Wolfwood worked with had only good things to say about him; he was a good detective, a practical joker, a good listener. But after all the compliments ran out, they all said the same thing: he was harder to figure out than the Gordian Knot.

Two meetings with the man--one where he had punched a superior officer hard enough so that his teeth had sliced open the inside of his cheek, and the other a minute ago where he had been cold and unapproachable--and Meryl was weary and tense all at once. She couldn't put her finger on it, had no way to understand the reason why, but Wolfwood sat her on edge.

* * *

Wolfwood stalked up the stairs of the station, his tie blown back by the pace he kept. He was glad to see that everyone was too busy to joke with him about the chief's multiple stitches. Once inside his office, he went straight to the phone and dialed a number he thought he'd never have to dial again. He cursed softly when he got the answering service. 

"Hello? Yeah, it's me. Wolfwood. I know I'm not anyone you want to talk to, but it's important. So how about we meet for a drink and have a chat? I'll leave the place and time to you, but the sooner the better."

He sat the receiver down gently and stared at it, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Even if it wasn't, he knew there was no other choice, so he forced himself to stop thinking about it. After all, the press conference changed everything.

And then, quite suddenly, he wasn't thinking about the press conference at all anymore. A stray thought came into his mind so quickly, like an assassin over rooftops, that he had no way of stopping it.

The phone seemed to draw his hand magically. He found himself lifting the receiver again and dialing a number he hadn't realized he'd memorized.

He held his breath until it was answered.

"Hello?" asked the sweet voice on the other end.

"Hi. It's me, Wol...Nicholas."

"Nick? You really called? I didn't think you would!" Milly exclaimed. He could tell, he just _knew _from her voice that she was smiling.

"Well, I did. How are you?"

"I'm great! But, I'm kind of busy right now. Lessee...Are you free tonight?"

Wolfwood gaped at the receiver as if it had grown arms and started dancing around. Wasn't that supposed to be _his_ line?

"Yeah, I'm free. Do you want to...eat?" He cringed, but she didn't seem to think it was a strange thing to say at all.

"Sounds good. I know a great place," she said and then gave him the name of the restaurant and address. He knew it and agreed to meet her in two hours.

"Okay! I'll see you then?" she said.

"Yeah, see you then." He hung up the phone, his face a mask of amused disbelief. That had been...disturbingly easy. If he had had luck with women like that in high school, things would have been smooth sailing. Apparently all you had to do was call them and wait for them to ask _you_ out to dinner. He chuckled and shook his head. That girl was going to be the death of him, he realized.

Until then, there was nothing to do but wait for a phone call he hoped would come soon, and work. He opened a file and started reading, anticipation fueling him. When the phone rang, he answered it quickly, hoping it was the call he needed.

"Wolfwood."

"Heya, partner!"

Wolfwood sagged a little. "I'm down the hall. Can't you _walk_?"

"Nah, figured you were still at the meeting with PR, so I wanted to leave a message," Vash said. From the sound of it, he was munching on something he probably had no business eating.

"Donuts?"

"Donuts!" Vash answered. "Want me to save you some?"

"No thanks."

"Your loss. But listen to this. I just got off the phone with Michio Nakamura's ex-boyfriend."

"She was the seventh victim, right?"

"Right. Get this: they went to the coast together a year before she died. Four victims is a little less thin, wouldn't you say?"

Wolfwood sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Hmm...I'd say so."

"I mean, we could work with four victims."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," Wolfwood agreed.

"Especially when you consider the hotel." Vash sounded sly, like he was just waiting to drop the big news.

"Tell me," Wolfwood said, eyes narrowed with focus.

"It was a Good Rest. The _same _Good Rest where number three, Wanda King, stayed."

"Well I'll be..."

"So I say," Vash said, sounding very satisfied with himself, "that if we can get in there, get a look at their guest logs, their employee records...even their _caterers_, we might have something. If we take tonight to work out the details, contact the nearby stations and try to get a joint investigation under way, we might be able to find something. We might even be able to create a list of suspects, which we haven't had before. It'll take a loooong time, but I say we should go for it as soon as possible! Tonight! We could order take out! What do you say?"

Wolfwood cleared his throat nervously. "Sounds great..."

"Then let's get started!"

"...but the problem is that...Ikindahaveadatetonight."

The line went quiet. "Say that again," Vash commanded. "Slowly."

"I have a date," Wolwood whispered.

"Well, well, well," Vash said, sounding all too pleased. "This wouldn't happen to be your high school sweetheart, would it?"

"She's not my sweetheart! It's just dinner. It's not even a date. It's dinner. Just dinner."

Wolfwood could hear the sound of Vash's fingers drumming against his desk. "You should be ashamed of yourself," he said. "How dare you try to have..._a life_?"

"Ha, ha."

"Laugh all you want, but this is serious business," Vash intoned. "After over two years of being your partner I've never seen you even look at a girl. Or go see a movie, or play a game of golf, or do anything but work. And now you want to run right out and do things that _normal_ people do? It's just unacceptable." Wolfwood could tell that his partner was having a hell of a time trying not to laugh as he delivered his sarcastic reprimand.

"I'm embarrassed to call you my partner! Going out on a date like a regular guy. It's just deplorable!" He gave a theatrical sob.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, Vash?"

"Don't I know it. Just get out of here and have a good time. But promise me one thing."

"Okay," Wolfwood said worriedly. With Vash doing his comedy routine, promising him anything was probably a bad idea.

"Name the first bundle of joy after me!"

Wolfwood hung up the phone, barely suppressing a smile. After a crap day like yesterday, it was days like this when he was reminded why it was good having Vash as a partner. He looked at the clock, grabbed his keys and headed out of the station.

To dinner.

_Just_ dinner.

To Be Continued...

Okay! So not much happened in this chapter, but I wanted to get into the dynamic between Vash and Wolfwood and also to try to help move the case along (and stick in some dark hints about Wolfwood's past while I was at it). Up next? The dreaded press conference and an explanation on why it's such a bad idea. And Picasso finally makes his move...

Big thanks to everyone who reviewed and wondered about Leatherman. You guys are too smart for you own good. I'm worried that you're going to solve the case before Wolfwood! Please continue to let me know what you think!


	7. Dinner

Warning: Mentions of child abuse and kidnapping. Very strong language for this chapter. Not beta-read and it shows.

Sorry for the delay. This chapter is extra-specially long. It's actually three chapters in one. Yay...?

* * *

Part XIII: Dinner

* * *

It was just a restaurant, which helped Wolfwood to convince himself that what he had said to Vash was true. This was just dinner. Not a date. 

He stood outside the establishment because it was stupidly non-smoking and he was having a crisis. Though why he should be was beyond him. Yes, this was _just _dinner.

The amount of cigarettes he had gone through while waiting, however, showed how nervous he was. _And if you're nervous_, Vash's voice seemed to say from inside his mind, _then it's a date._

Wolfwood silently cursed his partner for...general practice. Going too long without cursing at Vash, or cursing the idea of Vash, meant that he was getting complacent. He grinned and was about to light another cigarette, when Milly arrived. He saw her pull safely into the parking lot in her sensible blue two-door, and then disappear behind the building. He quickly put his lighter back into his pocket and returned the unsmoked cigarette to the pack.

A moment later, Milly rounded the corner on foot, waving at him. She looked neat and confident in a navy blue skirt and crisp white blouse, and her low heels made only the smallest click clack against the pavement. She came to a halt before him and he noticed that she was wearing that perfume again, the one that smelled like lavender.

"Hi," he tried.

"Hi," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you could come. Sorry I'm late."

He waved that away and held the door to the restaurant open for her to enter. It was an Italian place, reasonably priced, and with a lively atmosphere. In no time at all the former classmates were seated at a small, square table near the door.

Milly immediately opened the menu the tired-looking waiter handed to her, her pretty blue eyes moving carefully over each item. "Sorry, but I'm starving," she explained with a smile that begged forgiveness.

Wolfwood waited a heartbeat to be sure she was distracted with the menu, and then carefully adjusted the bottles of condiments and seasonings lined up on the table so that they were symmetrically situated and their labels facing front. If Milly noticed him doing it, she said nothing. Instead, she made frustrated noises at finding that two of the rich spaghetti dishes looked good.

"Eenie Meenie it is," she said and then commenced to wave her finger back and forth between the two items, mouth moving quickly with the chant. "And you are not IT!" she exclaimed. "All right, the mushroom and cream sauce it is. How about you?"

Wolfwood started. He had been so amused watching Milly's indecision resolve itself that he hadn't even glanced at the menu. He finally cracked it open, and decided quickly. But he didn't put it down right away, instead he used it as a shield while he tried to understand how Milly could be so mature, so completely together, but still so childlike at the same time. She was like a big kid, forced to play in a grown-up world and finding she just wanted to go back to the sandbox.

The waiter returned shortly, took their orders, and shuffled sleepily away again. Wolfwood, left alone with Milly looking at him expectantly, didn't quite know what to say. Vash had been right:Wolfwood hadn't socialized in...a very long time.

"So...what did your client do?" he blurted suddenly. "The one who wanted to buy the area near the murder. Did they go with a different insurer?"

Milly let out a puff of air that lifted her soft bangs away from her face. "Yes, but I can't say I blame him. Especially with the news the way it's been lately. The newspapers and television. Nobody wants anything to do with Picasso." She gave a little shudder and fell silent.

Wolfwood had to suppress what tried to slip past his lips at that moment. He wanted, he realized, to talk. About Picasso. But with Milly? That was not possible. But the feeling was there nonetheless and persistently taking over ever corner of his mind. It was the same feeling he had whenever he couldn't get in touch with Vash and needed to, badly. When he was just dying to tell him something he had learned or to discuss a theory. If he were a child, he would be bouncing on his heels in eagerness to tell everyone about what he had seen, what he had thought. But he was eager to discuss a serial killer with a girl when they were on a...having dinner.

Maybe it was because he, regretfully, didn't have many other things to talk about. His life revolved around his job, and his job revolved around murderers and serial killers. It revolved around Picasso.

And Milly had brought up the subject so easily; he couldn't help but think that it was a window. Was this an opportunity to get all the difficult things out of the way now? He could lay it before her, like the waiter settling steaming plates before customers all around them, and say to her, "There, that's how it is. What do you think _now_?"

And if he tried to explain his world to her, to let her see how his mind was taken up completely with morbid subjects--simply because it was what he did for a living--how would she react? Would she shut down, hide behind a menu and pretend to look for desserts? Would she make a good show of not being bothered by his profession--no, his life? Would she feign interest or pretend that she understood when there was no way that she could? And why did he want to test her to find out?

Dammit, but Vash would have the answers. Vash would know why he felt this way. But how would that look? To call his partner in the middle of dinner because he had somehow twisted his life so royally that he couldn't even think straight without the guy around?

"Yes," Wolfwood said slowly, as if picking the words that would come next with great care. "The newspaper articles about Picasso are causing a lot of trouble."

Milly nodded sympathetically. "I can only imagine! You must have your hands full trying to deal with it all."

"We do. There will be a press conference tomorrow. I'm going to have to tell the entire city--the entire nation--that Picasso isn't as dangerous as the stories say."

Milly swallowed visibly. "But...is he?"

"Yes," Wolfwood said simply. "Wherever he is, he is brilliant, driven, and dangerous. And we simply can't catch him. In the four years he's been active, four lead detectives have come and gone. They either went insane, or abandoned the case. All of them."

"Insane? Abandoned the case? Why would they do that?"

"Well, let me just say that none of them were cowards."

"Oh..." Milly said lamely.

He studied her face carefully, waiting to see when it clicked, when she would decide that this was not what she wanted to discuss. Until then, he found he couldn't stop.

"The things he does are not classifiable. This...is not a textbook case. Picasso is not like the others."

"O-others?"

Wolfwood nodded, but his mind was screaming at him to shut up. It was almost as if he was trying to scare her away. They should talk about movies and music and all the other things that young couples talked about over dinner.

Instead, he said darkly, "I've spent my entire adult life studying and working to apprehend serial killers and the criminally insane. None of them--_none_ of them--have been like Picasso. And if I can't catch him, he'll just keep going. Killing young girls, and leaving their mutilated bodies for the cops to find."

Milly stared into his eyes for a long minute, her smile a distant memory. There was a crease between her thin brows, a slight downward tilt to her pretty mouth. He had done that, simply by being who he was. This had been a mistake.

She jumped and gasped loudly when the waiter set her plate down in front of her. Wolfwood watched her through the steam coming off his own dinner. She looked disturbed. And suddenly relieved to have something to do instead of talk to him.

She ducked her head and tucked into her plate instantaneously, hands shaking as she handled the fork and spoon.

Wolfwood diligently quieted his thoughts, which were doing an impressive impersonation of his partner calling him a million, true, horrible names. He took a bite of his spaghetti, not really tasting it. Hell, what could he do?

Finally, he spoke. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have talked to you about...work. It's just been stressful...lately." _Oh, you liar. Yes, stressful 'lately,' like it will get better. It never does._

She attempted one of her bright smiles but it was a sad imitation. "It's okay. I mean...everybody needs a chance to unload." She sounded sincere, but he noticed that she didn't say anything other than that. In fact, she focused so intently on her spaghetti that you would have thought it was a best seller.

"It's just that...I..." he tried, but gave up, stifling a sigh. The minutes stretched on. Yes, this was a mistake and one that was solely his fault. He could feel the muscle in his jaw aching from clenching his teeth together. This is what absolutely wretched, broken feels like, he decided. But what could he do?

"Listen," he whispered. The solution was a silly one. One that probably wouldn't work. But he'd try. Dammit, he'd try, if only to see that smile again. "Let's start over."

This got her to lower her fork and look at him with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean?" Her eyes widened when he held out a hand to her.

"Hi. I'm Wolfwood."

She stared at his hand in disbelief for half a minute. Then she clasped it in one of hers--smaller, smoother. "Milly," she said and he was treated once again to that smile. "Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine," he whispered, and he didn't release her hand.

* * *

Part XIV: The Press

* * *

The next day went too quickly. He didn't even have time to think about what had been a halfway decent dinner with Milly the night before. There was no time for it. 

Vash darted in from time to time with reports and messages from everyone and everywhere and Wolfwood almost imagined that they were whirling through the air and landing on his desk in heaps, faster than he could handle them. Sadly, none of the messages were from the one person he needed to speak to. How many hours had passed since he called? Could he risk calling again?

The decision was taken from him when the clock showed the hour he least wanted to arrive. With one last look at the phone, he shuffled out of his office to meet with Meryl Strife. She spoke quickly and softly as they walked together towards the doors leading to the impressive front entrance of the station. It was all cleanly cut stone and glass with well-swept steps sloping down to a grassy, park-like area. Benches were scattered here and there beneath the healthy trees that stretched high into the air to catch the rays of summer sun. Already reporters and columnists were gathering before the podium erected at the top of the steps, baking in the sun. There was a jungle of wiring and boom mics and cameras being shuffled around and dozens of men and women in solid colors adjusting their professional suits while juggling scripts, cell phones, and notebooks.

The party of officers and PR officials who would stand on the podium with Wolfwood watched the scene outside through the glass. They chatted amongst themselves while Meryl went ninety miles and hour without taking a breath.

Wolfwood reluctantly tuned in to Meryl's cautioning words. Don't forget to say _this_ and not say _that_. If any questions about _that _pop up, make sure you say _this_ or say 'no comment' or pass the question to the commissioner or the chief or...

He didn't want to hear any of it, but he listened.

"Detective." Wolfwood turned at the curt greeting and bit the inside of his cheek to hide the smile that threatened. This was the first time he had seen the chief since the 'incident' and, well, the man looked bad. A purple and red mess--decidedly knuckle-shaped in nature--spread across half of his face. It was puffy and angry-looking. Wolfwood couldn't help to notice that Bennigan spoke with a slight lisp, as if his mouth was numbed with painkillers and stuffed with cotton.

"Chief Bennigan, thank you for joining us today," Wolfwood said, professional to a fault. His voice was liked poisoned honey.

"Nick, my boy, you old devil!" a big voice boomed from his left, interrupting whatever acidic comments Bennigan had been about to make. Wolfwood turned in time to see the commissioner approaching. He held out his hand, and had to struggle not to gasp when it was overlooked and he found himself pulled into a bear hug.

The commissioner was a big guy. Really. Taller than Bennigan and wider than anyone had rights to be, he was all shoulders. His face was younger than his years dictated and he smiled easily. His voice could level mountains. It was difficult to understand why he needed the officers that followed him around, offering menacing protection.

Wolfwood managed to escape the man's strong arms, smoothed his hands down his suit, and adjusted his tie. "Commissioner Evergreen, good to see you, too."

"And how is the best detective on the force? Well! Quite a day, quite a day," the man said as he rocked back on his heels. In a quieter voice meant only for Wolfwood he added, "I appreciate this, by the way. The press conference, I mean. Wish you'd do more of them. And I got Bennigan off your ass. He wanted your badge, by the way. Is it too much to ask that you refrain from punching higher ranking officers?"

"I apologize, sir," Wolfwood said.

"Don't. But we'll be having a long chat, you and I. Very soon. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

But then Meryl was begging for his attention again, trying to go over the details of the press conference one last time. Wolfwood turned away from the commissioner and listened as the list of things he simply _had_ to say grew longer and longer...

He suddenly looked around with worry on his face.

"Is something wrong, detective?" Meryl asked.

"No, nothing. Why?"

"It just looked like you were looking for something, is all."

"I'm fine," he lied, and kept looking. _Where the hell is Vash?_ he thought.

And then it was time. They surged out of the building, advancing to the podium like an army.

The press conference was about to begin.

* * *

He could feel his blood raging through his veins like a beast on the loose, but slowly. He could hear his heart, a thunderous, evenly paced beat. His breathing was like the crash of water from a falls--loud, constant, rhythmic. Settled into the patterns, undisturbed, he thought, and thought. 

It took over a day for him to pin down the problem, what had maybe caused at least half of his reaction that day: he knew his face. He really did. It was just an old memory that wouldn't seem to surface. Ever since that rain-battered day in the alley, the man known only as Picasso had been...distracted. From all the things he should have been doing. From all the things he had once believed he wanted to do.

Milly still captivated him. Of course. Her sweet, blue eyes and stable little world still spoke volumes to him. Like poetry.

But the desperation, the need that drove him, had faltered and not recovered. He was behind schedule, but for once he had no plans. Once, he thought, it might be fun to maybe, say, see how Milly would react were her mail to suddenly stop coming or if her carefully addressed letters to her large family never arrived, never made it to the post office at all. He wondered if she would mail more and place them on the post with a clothes pin as before, or if she would change her routine and take them to the post office in person. He was very curious.

But somehow, he hadn't made it back to see his Milly in days. The day things stopped making sense, he had returned soaked to the bone, his mind not functioning properly. At first he had laid there in his overlarge bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He had chased that distinctive face through his mind, trying to make it settle into a solid memory, but it wouldn't come. Perhaps, he wondered, if this man, this Detective were someone he had never actually met, only seen. Like in a photograph. A newspaper clipping? Television...?

And there it was again, the feeling that he was so close. He strained for it, even his breathing quickened. He reached...

So close, but the pain of it, the grinding pressure of his mind clawing its way towards a memory...

It slipped away and Picasso groaned, almost growled. Why wouldn't it come?

He clutched the sheets in his pale hands and sobbed, not understanding.

And then, from nowhere, an idea occurred to him. _Turn on the TV_.

He stretched his hand across the bed to the nightstand for the remote. Hit the button. The set flashed to life.

Picasso only had to glance at the image for a moment before a sharp stab went through him like a frozen knife between his eyes.

He sat up neatly and saw the generic room around him anew, as if for the first time. Like a newborn, like a man reborn.

He didn't look nervous. Far from it. The man on screen, dressed in a full black suit in defiance of the summer heat, looked confident. Everyone around him sweated, including a short, dark-haired woman with a baby face who hovered close to him like a mother hen. She dabbed at her brow with a lacy handkerchief. Others fanned themselves with their hands. He alone remained cool, unfazed, brilliant. But it was an act, and Picasso knew it.

He knew his face. He _knew_ it. And the name, that too was on the tip of his tongue. It would come.

On the fuzzing television screen, Detective stepped to the podium, his face still visible behind the collection of severe-looking microphones mounted there. Their wires had to be tied and pinned back to keep them from obscuring the state seal set into the podium. It glinted in the sunlight, a perfect little symbol of justice and order.

And already the pressmen and women were murmuring because this man was no stranger.

The crowd around the podium seemed to heave forward as one.

"Is that _him_?" someone called out. And then all the young reporters and cameramen who were new to the job started whispering to superiors and to each other.

"That man..."

"Wasn't he the one...?"

"--famous because five years ago..."

"--but the big one was three years ago and he hasn't..."

"--has caught so many serial killers, but I heard--"

"--too young to be..."

And eventually all of them said one word: Leatherman.

It roared through the crowd--first a whisper and then a sonic boom. Graphics across the bottom of the screen showed Detective's name in clean, impressive letters.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Detective JCPD

And then he remembered. Picasso, far away from where Wolfwood stood behind the podium, remembered everything and, with that feeling, swept in a wave of relief. He was suddenly perfectly focused.

Wolfwood, however, was taking deep, even breaths. The crowd's murmuring, their careless use of that word, as if it was a petty thing, not something that tortured him. He looked left and then right, trying not to show his panic. Only when his eyes fell on Vash did he relax. His tall, blonde partner stood off away from the crowd of reporters and police officials. He leaned casually against a tree across the way, close enough for Wolfwood to see him, but not so close that he looked like Meryl, worriedly lurking next to him.

Vash wanted to be nearer. He wanted to do as Meryl was doing, but had to face the fact that he couldn't be there all the time. After all, he had been there when it mattered most, and that was enough, wasn't it? He gave his partner a reassuring nod, hoping it helped.

Wolfwood acknowledged it with a small nod of his own, then held up a hand to get the crowd's attention.

Picasso leaned in closer to the set.

And in his dark room, he stopped even blinking, because Detective was speaking now, his voice a deep rumble with just a hint of an accent. Something eastern. Definitely. Because Detective wasn't from here.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice," he said. The murmurs of the crowd quieted like ripples in a lake once the pebble settled at the bottom. "I'm Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood of the July South District Station. I'm currently heading the investigation of the serial killer known as 'Picasso'."

The sound of cameras clicking filled the pause and the flashes of light made Detective squint before continuing. "South District is collaborating with other districts on this case and plans to expand the number of stations and officers involved. I have been asked to reassure the public that we're doing everything we can to capture Picasso and that, while we understand the public's concern, we cannot condone any non-police action attempting to capture him. Any groups found acting independently as a militia will be arrested and tried to the full extent of the law."

He paused to let his words sink in. The reporters gathered below him weren't really listening to him. He could tell. Their minds were already formulating questions to ask. He could see their hands twitching, waiting for him to open the floor to questions. He wondered what the chances were of him getting out of here without taking any of them at all.

"I've also been asked to address recent newspaper articles that have made Picasso out to be inhuman and supernatural. These rumors are harmful to the investigation and troublesome to the public. The source quoted in the papers saying that the latest victim's heart exploded has not been identified, and cannot be trusted as a valid police source."

Detective kept talking, talking, talking. But Picasso, he heard so much more than the words he said. He didn't breathe or blink as he listened. Suddenly, he felt like working again, as he hadn't in days. Because now he could do things. Beautiful things.

He moved across the room, grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began writing, his ears always tuned to the sound of Detective telling very pretty lies.

* * *

_"Detective, how does this case compare to Leatherman and the Bay Bridge killings?"_

_"It's difficult, not to mention dangerous, to compare cases like that. No two serial killers are alike, which is one of the reasons why it's so difficult to catch them."_

_"Detective Wolfwood! Studies have shown that serial killers are emboldened the longer it takes to capture them. They tend to increase the number of victims, convinced of their own invincibility. So why is it that this so-called 'Picasso' only kills five victims every year?"_

_"As I said, it's difficult to make guesses for one serial killer based on another. Next question."_

_"This one's for Chief Bennigan. What happened to your face?"_

_"No comment."_

_"Detective, I fail to see how you can so carelessly disregard the rumors concerning Kelly Morgan's death..."_

_"As I said, those rumors are detrimental to the department's investigation and I would consider it a very big favor if they stopped today..."_

_"But there are sources!"_

_"And none of them have been recognized by the department."_

_"Detective, how are you attempting...?"_

_"Detective, can you verify...?"_

_"Detective, how long...?"_

_"Detective, about Leatherman...?"_

_"Leatherman...?"_

_"Leatherman...?"_

Wolfwood felt bile sliding up his throat even at the memory of the damn press conference, which had barely lasted fifteen minutes, though it had felt like a lifetime. They didn't use to make him feel like this. In fact, he used to love them. The excitement, the chance to show his expertise. It was funny how much things could change.

He stood by the window in his office, glad to be rid of commissioners and chiefs and obsessive compulsive PR representatives. All of them had been so pleased.

"Thank you, detective," Bennigan had lisped. "You're finally earning your keep." Meryl had been so relieved. The commissioner so complimentary.

Wolfwood grimaced at the recollection. The taste of every lie he had told lingered in his mouth and no amount of coffee or cigarettes had made it go away. Not even the fact that his message light had been blinking cheerily when he returned, and the message had been the one he wanted--not even that could do anything.

There was a soft double knock on the door. He didn't turn around. Hell, he didn't need to since he already knew who it was. He always knew.

"Do you want to know why so many serial killers are never caught, Vash?" he asked, sounding tired and older than his years.

Vash silently took a few steps into the pristine office. "Okay, you got me. Why?"

"Because of cops. Because of detectives who run at the first sign of danger. Because of cowardly captains and chiefs and commissioners who don't want to admit that they have a serial killer in their district. So they twiddle their thumbs and give it to the overworked homicide department and tell everyone it's one of a kind because nobody wants a serial killer on their hands."

He moved to his chair and sat down heavily, facing his partner but not looking at him. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a pencil and began tapping it rhythmically against his desk. "And when they do finally admit it, after _two_ years of letting the bastard mutilate people, they lie to the public. They tell them, 'Oh, he's not anything _too_ dangerous. Picasso's a puppy dog.'"

Vash listened to Wolfwood's heated words and watched the pencil as if hypnotized.

"In _fact_," Wolfwood spat, "they go to a lot of trouble to drag a specialist across the country and make him lie, too. "

His pencil suddenly stilled. He raised his eyes to look into Vash's. "How are we helping, partner? You tell me."

Vash didn't miss a beat, but said with an earnest tone, "We're doing the best we can. We got here...three years too late and when we did, they had only admitted that they were dealing with a serial killer ten months before. This case has a bad history and we've got to deal with that and it's not easy. But we _are_ trying."

He looked down at his hands and then directly into his partner's eyes until the other man felt uncomfortable under the intense gaze. "It's all we can do," Vash whispered.

Wolfwood looked stunned, and then smirked. "Thanks for the pep talk." He stood and stretched, looking lean and too long for his height. "Let's call it a day. You look beat and I've got someone I need to see."

"Okay," Vash agreed easily. "I was just about finished anyway." He waited for Wolfwood to pass him, jacket over his shoulder and keys in hand, before saying, "Oh, and tell detective Marlin I said 'Hi', will ya?"

"Who says I'm going to go see him?" Wolfwood asked, amused as always by Vash's ability to see through everything.

"I do. Am I wrong?"

"G'night, Vash," Wolfwood said as he closed the door behind them and left Vash standing in the hallway looking bemused.

"'Night, partner. Try to stay out of trouble." He stared after him long after he disappeared around the corner, thinking. He didn't like what came to mind.

* * *

Part XV: Frank

* * *

Wolfwood wandered through the smoky, dimly lit bar. In the times that Wolfwood had come here, always on business, it had never changed. The bar itself, a solid wooden enclosure in the middle of the room, was lit by an eerie blue light, courtesy of a neon beer sign hanging above it. Its surface was as smooth as a banister in a mansion and a dark cherry red. Down a ramp and at the far back he could hear muffled cheers and the sound of billiard balls crashing into each other. The nightly pool games were tradition here. An ancient jukebox sat in the corner pumping out sad country western songs about love gone wrong. 

It was as quiet and empty as one would expect on a Wednesday evening. A few diehard regulars in grubby baseball caps cradled tall pitchers in their hands and never looked at anyone that passed. A guy in jeans that hung around his thin hips leaned over the jukebox, studying the selection as if he hadn't done so every night for years.

Wolfwood wove his way through the tables arranged haphazardly around the bar until he was beside a figure hunched over a drink, elbows in his lap as if afraid to let them get too near the surface of bar. This bar was famous for having a bartender who didn't mess around: the minute your head hit the bar, you were obviously too drunk to keep on drinking and she either threw you out, or had the cops do it for her.

The famous lady herself was tending tonight. She stood with her arms crossed over her heavy chest and stared at a small television set gathering dust on top of a minifridge. The sounds of a football game were muffled by the new, even sadder country western song that mister Low Jeans had picked. In this ballad, she left him once per verse. And his dog died, too.

Wolfwood gave the bartender a smile--she gave him a slight nod, unwilling to take her eyes off the game--and then studied the lone figure sitting at the bar.

Even though he was staying upright, he seemed to slouch by nature. Sitting up straight was perhaps something that his body had forgotten how to do long ago.

"Well, Frank," Wolfwood began as he settled down on the well-worn bar stool beside the other man, "let me buy you one?"

The man looked up wearily, his tired eyes sunken too far in his haggard face. "Hell no, you crazy bastard," he replied in a voice just shy of slurred. "I don't even want to be seen in public with you. Go away." It was a surprise that the man wasn't smoking, but the almost empty beer before him seemed to take all his concentration so that he didn't need to light up.

"Hey, don't be like that," Wolfwood protested then ordered two beers anyway. He noticed that Frank didn't turn his down when he pushed it towards him. "I don't want to be here anymore than you do. It wasn't my idea, honest."

Frank offered up a sceptical burp to that. "So that was some other young hotshot with a death wish? It wasn't you on TV just asking to have himself killed and his family hunted down? Oh, thanks for clearing _that_ up."

"I don't have a family to hunt down, Frank."

The glare he gave Wolfwood was toxic. "Yeah, well _I_ do. You gonna tell me you're immortal next?"

"Nah, I can die as well as anybody. Probably will now."

"I don't doubt it. But you knew. You _knew_. I made damn _sure_ you knew and you went and did that anyway. Why? Didn't I warn you?" He held up a hand when Wolfwood opened his mouth. "Don't answer that: I know I warned you because I went through _hell _to do it. Fat lot of good it did me."

He slouched even lower, something that Wolfwood would have thought was impossible before.

Wolfwood slid his thumb down the cold beer, making it squeak. "You did warn me, and I appreciate it. I did my damnedest to stay anonymous, Frank. I did everything you said. But there was no way to avoid it. They brought PR into it. The whole thing was a nice reminder of my position in the department and why I'm here to begin with. And then there are the papers. You saw them, right?"

Frank's face twisted with disgust. "I saw 'em. They're the only ones who know what's going on for once. Goddamn reporters. Hah!" he barked humorlessly, his voice was the poster child for emphysema. Rasping breaths came through his lungs and rattled them as they went. It was like gravel. Like a broken record recording of gravel underneath a dump truck. It was almost enough to make Wolfwood quit. He lit up and took a drag, instead.

"So tell me," he said, "how long do I have?"

Frank gave him a bleary-eyed appraisal. "I dunno. A day? A week? How the fuck should I know? He'll get you when he gets you."

"Dammit, I know that already. I need details. Facts. Give me something solid here. What will it be? You never told me, just expected me to go on faith and believe what you said. Well now I want to know. What did he do to--"

Frank cut him off with a loud, body-shaking bout of coughs that lasted a full minute. He coughed into a handkerchief and wiped heavily at his lips. Wolfwood tried not to look disgusted.

"You drag me out here, put both of us in danger, and all so that you can find out how he's going to ruin your fucking life? It's gonna happen anyway, why you wanna know in advance? Tell me, did you get to be this fatalistic before or after that sicko Leatherman fucked with your head?"

Wolfwood didn't answer for a long time. He didn't even smoke, only staring at the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand as if it held all the answers he needed. Finally he said, "After."

"Figured as much. Between you and me, if you don't want to be more fucked up than you already are--and trust me, you _are_--drop the case like all the rest of us."

"Miller didn't drop the case," Wolfwood corrected.

"No, he didn't. He lost his mind. Poor, crazy bastard," Frank conceded and toasted the man all by himself, draining his glass. Wolfwood ordered him another.

"I can't," he said thoughtfully. "Drop it, I mean. I can't."

Frank looked at him, steadily, then shifted his big frame on the stool to dig in the back pocket of his faded jeans. He fished for a moment and then revealed a battered wallet. From that, he slid a photograph, somewhat rumpled around the edges, and handed it to Wolfwood.

It was of a little girl, maybe six years old, with her dark brown hair pulled ridiculously into a ponytail atop of her head. She had her hands on her hips, mimicking perhaps her saucy mother or something she saw on television. Despite the attitude-pose, her face was split by a huge smile, one tooth missing.

"Ever tell you about my kid?" Frank asked.

"No."

"Well, I've got one. A little girl. This is her," he said, tapping the picture redundantly. "Name's Roberta, after her grandmother. Horrible name for a little girl to live with. And I never liked my wife's mother, so I call her by her middle name. That's Anne. I call her Annie, like the musical. You know?"

Wolfwood looked up from the picture, and gave a nod. He didn't understand, but he had this feeling just below his heart telling him that he didn't want to know what Frank was saying, that he'd be better off not hearing this story.

"She just turned seven. I got her a bicycle. But that year, she was only five. When he took her, she was standing right next to me. We were in the mall looking at Barbie dolls. Do you know those damn things?"

"I know them. Pink?"

"Pink. All that damn pink. Makes me sick, but for Annie? Okay, I can do pink. God knows why but s-she liked the one with the hair that changed color."

He suddenly fell silent and gave a short sniff before staring into his beer. "My little girl, just gone. I didn't hear a thing. Not a sound. And nobody saw anything. One minute she's there, and the next she's gone. Like water through my fingers."

He held his hands up towards Wolfwood, looking helpless and lost. Wolfwood swallowed, heavily, unsure of what to say. Frank was coming apart in front of him.

"You try sleeping at night knowing something like that is your fault."

"Frank, it wasn't--"

"It _was_, dammit! I got his little warnings, his threats. I put up with the shit thinking he'd never really _do_ anything to me." He wiped heavily at his eyes. The bartender surreptitiously slid a box of tissues towards him, her eyes never leaving the screen before her. Grateful for her thoughtfulness and discretion, Frank grabbed a fistful and blew into them fiercely.

"I wanted to play good cop and catch the bad guy. He wasn't going to scare _me_ away. And then he took my Annie. And his next little message told me that if I wanted her back, I'd drop the case and never tell a soul what he had done to me. Especially not any new detectives who decided to pick up the case."

Wolfwood looked down. It was a slap in the face to be told what Frank must have gone through trying to decide how and what to tell him. To warn him. And in one day he had made all of Frank's efforts worthless.

"So I made my little promises, dropped the case and never looked back. Hell, I quit the force. Because when we found her," he said, no longer dabbing at his eyes, but clutching the tissues in his fist, "she was dangling by her wrists from the tree in my back yard. She still has the scars from the ropes. She still has nightmares. She still wakes up crying. But dammit," he hissed, "she's alive."

Frank stared into his beer, and Wolfwood looked down at his hands. The two men sat like that, neither speaking, only listening to the jukebox cranking out more tracks about drowning your sorrows and the girl that got away.

"I'm sorry," Wolfwood said. "I'm grateful to you for warning me. I wanted to tell you right away when I learned about the press conference, to try and explain. I'm sorry I've thrown all that you did for me away." He lit another cigarette and took a quick drag. "But please, is there anything else you can tell me?"

Frank shook his head. "Nothing to tell, now. Now that he knows who you are, he'll find you and do to you what he did to me. And what I guess the bastard did to all the other detectives on the case who came before me. He'll make a game out of torturing you. He'll take away everything that matters to you and crush it before your eyes."

Wolfwood shook his head. "I'm unlisted, difficult to find."

Now Frank shook his head, mimicking the other man. "That mug of yours is famous. A blind man with a gimp could find you. And if Picasso can't find your house, he'll find another way to get to you." He stood and finished his drink in one, unsteady motion.

"Take my advice: get out now before he finds you. Make a big deal out of it like I did. Retirement parties, the works. Because if you don't drop the case, he will hunt down you and yours, and that pretty track record of yours won't mean shit. Your life," he said, his eyes boring into Wolfwood's, "belongs to him now."

Wolfwood sat speechless, and then suddenly remembered the photograph. He shoved it under Frank's nose.

"Nah, Nick, I've got dozens. You keep it. Use it as a reminder."

And with that he staggered out of the bar, leaving Wolfwood alone with his dark thoughts, his untouched beer, and the last sad chords of a song about a life where nothing had gone right.

To Be Continued...

Thanks again to anyone who reviewed! Good to see people keeping up with this. It motivates me to write! Hope this one cleared up some of the wool that's been gathering. At least now we know what happened to all the poor detectives that came before Wolfwood.

Up next? The torment begins.

Thanks to the group Muse for providing the background music I listened tow hen writing this chapter. They'll never know how their angsty music can inspire a fanfiction writer. In particular, "Ruled By Secrecy" just works.


	8. H Tank

WARNINGS: Non-consensual sex. Abusive language. Violence. Homosexual situations. Not beta-read. If I could up the rating of this story anymore on this site, I would have done so for this chapter. If you think any of the above might bother you, this might not be the chapter for you. But if you still want to follow the murder mystery, just skip this chapter.

* * *

Part XVI: H-Tank

* * *

If you listened closely, the _drip, drip, drip_ on grimy concrete never ceased. The pipes here were partially rusted and couldn't hold the water that rushed through them, up into the gray steel and stone of the building. Up to where the light lived. And in a solitary room, in the dark, alone, he curled up around himself. It might have been broad, screaming daylight for all the difference it made here. 

He hadn't thought about being a human--alive and real--in a very long time. That was what the Tank did to you. No people came, no light was allowed, no noises save those that filth and decay created. The rats he imagined hid in the corners he couldn't see. The roaches that lived with them.

This was punishment and it had been going on, this time, for a week. He counted the days by the meals that the guardsbrought. They slid the meals through the little slot on the door that locked from the outside and stood there for fifteen minutes. And then they demanded everything back. If anything was missing--the tray, a bowl--they came in with their heavy guns, patting him down, searching him, no dignity spared. He couldn't be allowed to keep anything. Something he could use to kill himself or a guard. He ate with his hands because they wouldn't give him spoons or forks. Certainly never a knife.

The lack of stimulation, the lack of...everything. Punishment. It wasn't something that anyone could get used to. Not even him. They told him he was sick, that he needed help. But didn't this just make him sicker? Didn't it make him...

"I'm talking to you, boy."

Laying on his back, staring at what he could only guess was the ceiling, he rolled onto his side and flinched back from the sudden invasion of light into his vision. In the door, a bulky man stood with a torch in his hand, the strong beam aimed down at the floor. How long hadthe manbeen there? It was impossible to tell. He had been listening to the _drip, drip, drip_. To the voices. To the sound of his own heartbeat. To nothing.

"You hear me, boy?" the man asked in a frantic whisper. He waved his arm as he asked and the light of his torch litthe badge on his chest. It read "T. Ryan." Did he know this one? He couldn't remember. The man's size, his accent, his waxy skin discernible even in the dark. Surely he would remember.

He didn't answer the question, but Ryan acted as if he had anyway. "Yeah, you see me now, don't you? Back from La La Land now, aren't you, you sick fuck."

Ryan came closer to him, but not before reaching behind him to shut the door. It locked with a _click_ from the other side. Someone else with him? An accomplice to watch his back?

His eyes finally adjusted to the light cast by the unsteady torch and he could see the holster on Ryan's massive body, barely see the handle of the gun inside it. Ryan patted it with affection and said, "Ah, so you see how things are gunna be? I don't want any of your funny business. What you did to get down here, what you did to Leary--you ain't gunna pull none of that shit on me."

His voice shook slightly. Even with his gun, Ryan was afraid of him. Everyone was.

He had just decided to relieve the slob of his gun and stick it somewhere sure to hurt, when Ryan said, "'Cause if you do, I ain't gonna give you what I got for you. Yeah, I've got something for you, boy."

He sat up on the low bed. It didn't move at all, being bolted to the floor. There were no sheets on it. No pillows. The mattress was fastened to the frame, impossible to lift. He tilted his head to the side and studied Ryan.

"You want it, don'cha?" Ryan patted the pocket of his creased slacks. "I'll even let you have some light to see it. Five minutes. I'll get that for you." Here he paused and licked his lips. "But it ain't free."

Ryan was sweating, worse than a pig, worse than a crooked politician on Election Day. It slid down the wavering folds of his flesh and plastered his hair to his face. Every drop seemed to catch on the light from the flashlight.

There was a war in his mind. He was breaking so many rules, but he couldn't pretend that he didn't think it was worth it. Bribing his way into the Tank after hours. Lying his way into this cell. Breaking a rule to smuggle something in to barter with. Something that should have been confiscated. If anyone found out, if anything went wrong...

His heart sped at the thought, adding to the sense of fear, the excitement. This one was dangerous. This one had a reputation. He needed to be put in his place, needed to be punished for what he did to Leary, and Ryan could get a little something for it, too. It had been a long time since any woman would even look at him, since he'd been able to get any without having to pay some diseased, toothless prostitute for it. He knew he was playing with something that he would be smarter to leave alone, but most of his brain wasn't listening to him.

"You give me a little som'in'--and make it good and long--and I'll give you a little som'in'." Boldly, he slid the flashlight into its holster on the belt around his bulging waist and then reached for the fly of his slacks.

From the bed, he looked at Ryan with savage eyes the other man couldn't quite see in the dark room. Ryan's breathing was loud after all the silence he was used to, loud enough to drown out the sound of the _drip, drip, drip_. Fat as he was, he looked almost comical standing there with his smallish cock in his hand. Only the upper half of his body was lit by the upward-facing flashlight. Ryan looked like some monster from a scary movie, glowing eerily, his face distorted in the light. The light that went up.

He let his head fall back and saw the ceiling for the first time. It was flat and boring, just like everything else in the room.

"You look at me, boy!"

He lowered his eyes in time to see Ryan lick his cracked lips again. "We gotta deal?"

In the pocket of Fat Man's slacks, there was something for him. Something he wasn't supposed to have here in the Tank where he wasn't supposed to have anything. He wanted it.

As if he felt no pain, he slid from the bed, landing hard on his knees. And then, like the animal he was now, he crawled across the floor, his hands scratching against the rough concrete. He came to a halt before Ryan, looking up at the man lit up like Christmas. His eyes watered when the man dug his fingers into his short hair and tugged ruthlessly. Ryan pulled him up until he was eyelevel with his cock and he felt a few strands of his hair pull loose. Ryan smelled like sweat and must. All so familiar.

"No teeth, no noise, no stopping. Do what I say or I blow off your fucking head and you don't get shit. And don't forget: you deserve this. For what you did back then, for what you did to Leary."

He pulled him forward. "Now suck, bitch."

He gagged when Ryan sped in and started slamming down his throat. He wouldn't release his hold on his hair and his scalp burned from it. And even though he had warned him about making noises, Ryan grunted each time as he shoved further and further into his mouth, calling out the names of women who had probably never loved him.

It was hard to breathe and in his flickering vision, the situation was different, reversed and long ago. Yes, if he didn't think about what he was doing, it wasn't so bad. He was somewhere else, some_time_ else. He was standing, powerful, and a man was on his knees before _him_. A man with red hair that felt like silk beneath his fingers and perfect lips stretched wide around him, loving him. He pictured that man with his eyes the color of denim fresh out of the dye bath. Blue. Saturated in it.

_Drip, drip, drip._

Ryan came suddenly, griding his hips forward and holding, not moving until he was spent.

Then he kicked him away, and while he was down, kicked him in the stomach until he retched everything he had just swallowed.

Panting, he said, "Oh, but you're good, boy. You do that real good. I might just come and see you again."

A kick, this time to his shoulder, and he went sprawling, then curled up into a ball as the pain kept coming. "Fucking fag. Fucking murderin' fag."

His girth wasn't meant to move so much and his breathing was ragged. He stumbled backwards to the door, zipping his pants as he went and his hand straying fearfully to his gun. He spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie and a second later, the door opened.

The guard that had come for Ryan also carried a torch and the two guards together aimed the beams at him. The newcomer leered down at the sight of this one curled up on the floor, his lips bruised and bleeding. "Guess he weren't so tough after all."

"Huh. Guess not. Oh, almost forgot," Ryan said. He fought his fat hand down into the pocket of his slacks and after a moment, wiggled it back out again with a lot of cursing. In his fist was a single white envelope. He gave it a moment's consideration and then tossed it to the ground. It fluttered slowly and from the floor his eyes followed it hungrily.

"Ah, hell, you ain't really gonna let 'em have it," the other guard whined.

"Why not? He done good by me. Real good. 'Sides, it's probably jus' his momma wanna know he ain't been raped in the shower," Ryan said and laughed.

"But he's in the Tank, he ain't sposed ta--"

"Forget it, jus' forget it," Ryan snapped. "And give the bastard some light."

"What!"

"Five minutes. I promised him five minutes of light. Let him have that much."

The other guard scratched under his hat. "Must have been some damn good head, Ryan."

"Jus' shut--"

But the rest was cut off by the sound of the door closing, sliding shut and locking with a resounding _click._

_Drip, drip, drip._

The familiar nothingness was so complete now that he could almost pretend nothing had happened. The small envelope on the floor before him, however, was too real to ignore. And he had earned it.

He slithered like a snake towards where it had disappeared in the dark. His fingers found it on only the second try and he clutched it greedily to his chest. He took four deep breaths, and on the fourth, the lights blared to life.

It hurt. God it hurt. His eyes watered, they burned, they _screamed_. A week with the only light being the wavering beam from Ryan's torch while he crouched before him on the floor and sucked him off, and now _this_. This blaze. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had to. He only had five minutes.

When the thing was accomplished, his eyes leaking from the pain, he didn't even study the room that would have only disappointed. Instead, he tore the envelope open with shaking hands. Not enough time, not enough time.

_Drip, drip, drip._

He read it once and thought that maybe he really was as mad as the shrinks said he was. He read it twice and felt his hand stray involuntarily to his upper arm, imagining he could feel the sticky congeal of blood there. When his fingers ghosted over his lips, he licked them unconsciously and he almost imagined he could taste the metallic sweet. The pain, at least, was still real in his mind.

"Oh, yes, yes," he whispered. "How perfect, how good." But not enough time.

He flipped the envelope over and memorized the return address. Because if the guards found him with this tomorrow...

The lights crashed away, dying in darkness. It was dizzying, the transition back and forth and everything before his eyes was fuzzy, seeming to move as if the air was filled with ghosts. He considered them, imagining that he could see familiar faces floating close to him to tell him secrets and promises.

Five minutes was longer than he had thought. A very long time, in fact. Five minutes had just changed his entire outlook on life here.

In the pitch-black terror of the Tank, he tore a corner off the envelope and slid it like a holy wafer onto his tongue. He chewed thoughtfully. The taste didn't bother him, nor did the idea of ink poisoning, something the children in school used to warn each other about in serious whispers. It was children's folklore: don't write on your arm, you'll get ink poisoning. Don't let ink get in your mouth at all, you'll die.

Pen ink, non-toxic enough so that even if you did ingest over an ounce, recovery was guaranteed. How much ink was on this single page of small, crowded writing and the envelope that had held it? Surely something so valuable couldn't kill him. And if he died, he'd just be reborn because obsession like this wouldn't let him die.

He chewed the next corner, and the next. He was smiling by the time he started on the letter. If someone were to classify his mood, it was jubilant. He was blissful.

He would write a reply and get it outside. Tonight. Today. Tomorrow or the next day. Whenever he could gain access to pen and paper. Yes, and then the fun he'd have. He just needed someone foolish enough to let him do it.

His smile widened, hoping that Ryan visited him again very soon.

* * *

XVII: The Dark

* * *

Another day at work, another dollar earned. Her mother used to chant that like a mantra after a grueling day of caring for children, cooking, cleaning, and trying to fit some time in to take care of herself as well. Milly had adopted it, too. It helped. Somewhat. 

The days seemed to be getting longer at work. The summer heat was causing sunstrokes and dehydration across the entire country--and the city's center was hit particularly hard. Her coworkers one floor down were insanely busy dealing with it all.

As for Milly, water main breaks and damaged property because of them kept her on the phone and in meetings with city officials and angry car owners every day. It happened every year. The temperature rose and the pipes couldn't handle it. Air conditioning units broke down, caught fire, killed. This was the kind of weather that melted the rubber coating on electrical wiring and the soles of shoes to the pavement.

A weather caster on TV thought it was funny to try to fry eggs outside on the pavement and had looked sheepish and apologetic when two perfect, sunny-side-up eggs were the result. Especially when the stunt followed the news that two more elderly ladies had passed away in their homes. Neither one had owned a fan, and one of them had been too weak to raise the windows. The weather reader's little trick with the eggs had seemed to make light of something terrible. Maybe the network sensed this because he didn't give the weather report the following day. Or the day after that.

Milly pinched the bridge of her nose. Another day, another dollar. She was just grateful to be going home. Her car, for all the heat trapped inside it, had never seemed so welcoming if only because it promised her a way back to her own doorstep. She slid into its interior, kicked off her shoes and simply sat for a minute, staring ahead at the gray parking garage, the yellow and white lines crisscrossing the ground. Then she buckled up and pulled out onto the street, her stockinged feet slipping on the pedals.

Nighttime approached, cooling the city some, but not enough to cancel the need for air conditioning. Houses everywhere were abuzz with the sound of them battling the heat. She drove through the city, cautious of the other drivers around her who were even more obsessed to get home, many of them filled with a kind of rage that Milly didn't understand. To her left, the twisted remains of an accident were being cleaned off the highway, the drivers still screaming at each other on the shoulder.

Getting home was her priority as well, but not at the cost of human life. She had thought about death too much today already.

And the day before during her dinner with Nick. _He's a great guy_, she thought, taking a corner onto a wide, tree-lined avenue; from here, it was a straight shot home. She didn't have to think about taking the right turns or worry about the craziness of highway driving. She could think about Nick. A great guy, yes. But enigmatic and more than a little troubled. Worse, he was involved in dangerous things and she feared that...

She shook her head. She refused to think about it again tonight. But it kept forcing its way back into her mind so much so that she sat in her driveway for three minutes before realizing she had arrived home at all.

But the comfort of her routine would soothe her, lull into a calm as it did everyday. Her shoes dangled from her long fingers as she crossed her freshly-cut lawn (courtesy of a neighborhood boy) and mounted the steps. And then she was inside, just like always with only one variation on her usual routine, an urge she couldn't explain: she closed the curtains on her windows. She felt oddly relieved afterwards. Then she moved into the kitchen were, machine-like, she made dinner--

_He spent his days thinking about killers and death and the murdered._

--placed it neatly on the table before her--

_Like that poor girl in the papers. They said her heart exploded. And his life ate away at him like a disease._

--ate it in silence--

_But when he let go, when he was himself, his smile was like a little boy's. Good and innocent--not at all like the terrible things he talked about._

--cleaned up, washing the dishes efficiently--

_He liked music and jokes and when he touched her hand she had imagined that it stayed warm for hours._

--and then settled into her favorite chair to watch the news.

_He scared her._

Perhaps it was a slow day. The news was filled with special interest stories about a cat finding its way back to the city from a farm thousands of miles away. A man building a house out of recycled cans. A little boy winning a science fair.

But then a commercial came, and then Nick was on television. It was disconcerting to see him like this, surrounded by uniformed guards and official-looking people, when she had watched him blow on his spaghetti to cool it not so long ago. His name flashed across the screen above a graphic explaining that this was a pre-recorded broadcast. _Oh_, thought Milly as she watched the man in a pristine black suit step towards the microphone, _this isn't Nick at all._ This was Detective Wolfwood. She knew that this man wouldn't laugh or hold her hand. This man was made to work and know what others didn't. Smart, cold, efficient. But the things he said, they didn't fit...

_"I'm going to have to tell the entire city--the entire nation--that Picasso isn't as dangerous as the stories say."_

_"But...is he?"_

_"Yes."_

"Oh, Nicholas," she whispered. So here he was after all, lying, and doing a splendid job at it.

"The public should be cautious, but they shouldn't fear that Picasso is someone--some_thing_--that the police and appointed officials cannot handle. The investigation is going well..." Detective Wolfwood said with a voice that instilled confidence. Cameras flashed.

Milly flinched, remembering the tortured look on Nick's face the night before.

_"I've spent my entire adult life studying and working to apprehend serial killers and the criminally insane. None of them--none of them--have been like Picasso. And if I can't catch him, he'll just keep going. Killing young girls, and leaving their mutilated bodies for the cops to find."_

Milly squeezed her eyes together so tight that white dots like snow floated before them when she opened them again. Now she didn't know what to believe. She _wanted_ to listen to and embrace the words the intelligent detective on television said so smoothly. But the worried and uncomfortably tense man she had had dinner with was the one that spoke with conviction born of knowledge and fear.

Detective Wolfwood, handsome and tall, continued. "I want to tell the public, once again, to be careful. Do not go out unaccompanied. As you are well aware, all of Picasso's victims have been young, single women living by them--"

Every clock, every lamp, every blinking light on an answering machine...

The television.

The loud, screaming noise of wires buzzing and the little filaments in light bulbs shattering. The crashing silence. And everywhere blackness.

Milly didn't move.

_Young, single women..._

_Victims..._

She stood shakily, looking about and finding nothing familiar in the darkness. How long had she lived here? Didn't she know this house like the back of her hand? Yet distance was distorted. Where were the doors? Where was the way _out_?

The square screen of the television still glowed faintly and she clung to it with her eyes, willing it to stay that way. But it, too, faded. This is what blindness feels like. The absolute, pervasiveness of nothing. Even the streetlights outside her windows were dead. No headlights from cars passing on the street penetrated the curtains to reach her. The dark had found her and she couldn't escape it.

_A power-outage_, she thought. If she went to the front door and opened it, she would see every house on her side of the street dark. That was all it was. Melted wires from summer heat. Someone's air conditioner dying and shorting a fuse. These houses were old--there was no telling. Anything might cause the lights to die like this.

Completely. Suddenly.

She wanted her heart to be quiet because she couldn't hear with it thudding like it was. If it weren't for its pounding, she could listen. She certainly couldn't move because she knew, as everyone knows, that if you hold still in the dark, they can't see you.

_Power outage_, she thought as hard as she could. There was no _they_. Just faulty wiring.

Still, she might as well have been a statue for all that she wanted to move. Now, her own breathing sounding loud as it played heavy accompaniment to her heart.

Tears welled in her eyes when she heard the creak of a door opening. She bit her bottom lip and breathed through her nose in short, dangerous spurts that didn't get air to her brain. She was going to hyperventilate like this.

Footsteps. From the back door. They shuffled forward slowly and with practiced deliberation.

_Be a neighbor wanting to borrow a flashlight. Be the neighborhood watch. Be nothing. God please._

They just kept coming and she still couldn't move. She heard a sleeve brush against a doorframe, a shoe scuff against carpet.

_You can't see me if I don't move. You can't see me if I don't move._

Now she truly was crying and her tears were hot down her cheek. She could barely hear over the sound of her own blood raging in her ears but she heard _them_ coming for her. A floorboard creaked.

_God please god please godpleasegodplease..._

Her fingers worked reflexively at her side, sliding against her sweaty palms. Her heart crashing. Her breath catching. The footsteps nearer.

Behind her now. Hot breath dampened her neck.

She screamed when their fingers slid intimately across her shoulders. She screamed and screamed and screamed her throat raw. Whirling around, flinging her arm out, her shoulder slipping out of place, she struck--

Nothing.

There was nothing there. No one behind her. She stared out into the black void, panting. If she could have seen her own eyes, she would have known they were crazed and wide like a gazelle's the second before the lion's jaws closed on its neck.

Shaking, she took a step forward and almost cried out again when her shin smashed into her favorite chair. She caught herself on the padded arms and then used touch alone to feel her way around and away from it. She stood in the emptiness, trying to calm herself. But her eyes kept catching on what she thought were familiar things in the dark. A bookcase. A table over there. The table where her purse sat. And inside her purse was her cell phone. If she could get to it...

Something moved, a darting shadow before her.

She gasped and it moved again.

Swallowing, fearful, half-mad from the sound of her heart she croaked "Hello?" into the darkness. When it answered back, she screamed.

To be continued...

Well, remember how I said it was going to get creepy? Here you go. Thanks to everyone reading and especially to those who have taken the time to review. Sorry to everyone for the delayed update. Hope I didn't lose anybody with this one. Please drop a review one way or another since this chapter has me worried.

Up next? The investigation continues. And Milly...?


	9. The Light

Warnings: Slashy implications. Not beta-read. I went back through and fixed the mistakes I could find in chapters 9 and 10, but this here chapter got no love. I promise to fix it later.

* * *

PartXVIII: The Light

* * *

_Shaking, she took a step forward and almost cried out again when her shin smashed into her favorite chair. She caught herself on the padded arms and then used touch alone to feel her way around and away from it. She stood in the emptiness, trying to calm herself. But her eyes kept catching on what she thought were familiar things in the dark. A table there. A bookcase. The table where her purse sat. And inside her purse was her cell phone. If she could get to it..._

_Something moved, a darting shadow before her._

_She gasped and it moved again._

_Swallowing, fearful, half-mad from the sound of her heart she croaked "Hello?" into the darkness. When it answered back, she screamed._

For the moment's in between when the scream began and when it ended, she heard nothing. Her ears might as well have been plugged with cotton. Everything in her mind was debris, fragments of half-formed ideas and fears.

_She was going to die here--someone in the house, watching--and no one would hear if they--would they care if she--where are you--someone help me--mutilated..._

* * *

The lunge forward hurt. Her shoulder was throbbing. Something crashed to the floor; something else shattered. 

The light returned.

The minute she had tripped and stumbled her way to the table where her cell phone sat, the very second it was in her hand, the lights had blared to life. Like a sunset or a supernova. She had gasped and then bit her lip, trying to be silent.

At first, it stung her eyes like looking at a welding arc, but she refused to close them. As fast as she used to turn in ballet lessons, she spun in a circle, watering eyes probing every corner of her room. She hadn't been able to see anything, but that meant nothing. The silence of her house was so convincing. Everything looked so normal--except for her chair askew before the TV and the shattered vase on the floor. It presented such a reassuring image.

She didn't believe any of it. But her fears warred with the part of her that felt foolish and childish. How she had _screamed. _She'd probably lose her voice. But there was nothing she could do to fight the part of her that told her she wasn't foolish at all.

So now she still clutched the cell phone in her trembling hand. If she was silly, like those girls in the bad horror films, she'd go searching through the house by herself. If she was smart...

There were dozens of people she could call. Dozens of brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, ex-boyfriends and coworkers.

A million people she could call. Only one she wanted to.

* * *

Part XIX: Shrink

* * *

Wolfwood couldn't get over the cliché. Comfortable chairs, pleasant lighting. The spacious room even smelled good. How could the department afford this guy and the space he took up? Wolfwood gave the man in question a half-heated glare and didn't try to shift to get comfortable, even to stall for time. He was _already_ comfortable. The entire room was arranged in just the right way to ensure visitors were lulled into a false sense of security, spilling their guts even when they really, really didn't want to. Wolfwood didn't want to. 

Hell, he thought, they could have used this room for something useful, like interrogation or...weapons storage. They could have lined it with filing cabinets and split Records in two. But _this_? This was a waste of space. Wolfwood thought that every time he came here. Was _forced_ to come here, he amended. The damn shrink even had a clipboard that he glanced at casually, scratching things down in what Wolfwood was certain was illegible shorthand.

In the times that he had dealt with the man, it had occurred to him that this police psychiatrist was not like the others he had encountered. This one wasn't particularly therapist-style kind, understanding nor patient. He was, in Wolfwood's mind, only one or two clicks shy of evil. Perhaps he had been in the business too long and couldn't scrape up any gentle words or feelings anymore, or perhaps he had always been like this. Wolfwood didn't know. All he knew for sure was that this was no way to spend a Friday night.

"So, tell me about your partner." The shrink's voice was an interesting mix of superiority and calm, unintrusive inquisitiveness. The rest of it was juvenile smart-alecky-ness and it irked Wolfwood. The doc had a way of thinking he was always right. He had an even more annoying way of being right about always being right.

"What about him?" Wolfwood stalled. "What's his favorite color? His favorite movie? Most embarrassing moment? Whad'dya want to know?" He had a moment of strange revelation when he realized he could tell the shrink all of these things easily. He covered the pinching discomfort this caused him by raising a questioning brow.

A patient sigh and then, "You know what I mean."

"Nope, sorry. Completely lost. You're gonna have to be less cryptic."

"All right. How's this for less cryptic: are you, or have you ever been, sexually involved with your partner?"

"You've got no tact, doc."

"And you asked for it, detective."

"Yeah, because I thought you'd let it drop. For once. The answer is 'no', same as always."

Another sigh then, this one less patient. "Then, as always, I'd have to ask: 'Why not?'"

"Then, as always, I'd have to say: 'It's none of your goddamn business.'"

"Try not to be hostile with me, Nick. I can have you suspended if I find you unsuitable for duty. With your behavior lately, nobody would question me. And yes, it is my business. You're relationship--"

"It is NOT a relationship."

"You're _relationship_ with your partner affects how you perform. It affects your judgement. In fact, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that every questionable mark on your impeccable record is connected to him somehow. Quite frankly, you're as dependent on him as he is on you."

"We're partners. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Hmm...I'd say 'no'. At least not with all the sexual tension thrown in."

"There _is_ no sexual tension."

"And I'm the president of Guam, nice to meet you."

"Guam's government is headed by a _governor_. Now grow a fucking heart and back off."

A considerable pause, and then, "Hearts are unnecessary in my line of work. But I've got lots of pretty degrees that give me certain privileges. Diagnosing any brand of mental instability I want in insubordinate detectives? That _is_ right up my alley. And I have been known to see to it that they never work again. I do that quite well. That and prescribing heavy-duty, mind-altering narcotics."

"I get the idea: behave. Right?" Wolfwood said, crossing his arms.

"Precisely. Now, I have _heard_ from several sources that you, _ahem_, 'socked the chief so hard his momma felt it.'"

"Officer Midvalley has a big mouth."

"He's not the only one. Now, having _seen_ the chief myself just yesterday, I am now worried over the health of his mother. Or _momma_, if you will."

"Ha, ha."

"So, I want you to tell me, _honestly_. Swear on the bible or whatever it is you Christians do. Look me in the eye without flinching and tell me that you didn't punch the chief because of Vash."

Wolfwood didn't miss a beat but answered immediately, "It's _Detective _Saverem. And my actions had nothing to do with him."

"Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

Wolfwood tried not to wince as that day in chief Bennigan's office returned to him.

_"But from your reports, I'm to understand that your clown of a partner already questioned Morgan's mother."_

_"That's correct, sir. And don't insult my partner. It's not a good idea." _

He didn't answer.

The smug tone of voice was at full blast, now. "Like I said: your relationship with your partner is not the healthiest. I see cops who have had the same partner for twenty years. None of them are as attached at the hip as you two."

"We've got...history," Wolfwood said quietly.

"Ah, yes. That business with the Leatherman case. I don't suppose you want to talk about it today?"

"I don't suppose you want to tell me what sex is like with your expensive mistress?"

"You know, maybe I'll have you suspended just for fun." He said it with a serious tone, but couldn't hide his smile. Wolfwood actually smiled back. He'd never actually _hated_ the guy, after all. And in a way, talking to the doc was nice because he was one of the few people Wolfwood didn't intimidate. He gave as good as he got and sometimes better.

"That's the second time you've threatened me," Wolfwood commented as if it were a small thing. "If you're that upset, go ahead. Have a field day trying. I'll even call the commissioner myself."

"Funny. So, I guess I'm the one who has to back off, now?"

"You're quick."

"Ah, well then. So be it. Then let's change the subject...only not really. Rumor has it you're seeing someone." He held up a hand before Wolfwood could interrupt. "Before you start pointing fingers, it wasn't Vash who told me."

"You sure? _Detective Saverem_ has a big mouth, too."

"I'm positive. _Vash_ didn't tell me a thing. But may I inquire about this love interest of yours? What's his-- "

"_Her_. _Her_ name."

"Well. My, my. Forgive me, but I was under the impression that--"

"Don't get it twisted, doc. Vash is a special case."

"Dually noted," he said and actually did scratch something down onto his little clipboard. "So then...what is _her_ name?"

"I'm not telling you. It'll only sound dirty coming from that mouth of yours and she's a good girl."

"Good? Like the church-going, dress-mending, tea-drinking sort? Isn't that a little tame for you?"

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"With you that might be difficult since hearsay is all I have. It would certainly be easier--on _everyone_--if you just unzipped your lips and told the story."

"Sorry, not telling."

"You _and_ Vash both. Yet another thing that proves to me how problematic your relationship is. Sharing secrets? Lying to your superiors. Altering police records..."

"Doc," Wolfwood cut in sharply, "for the last time. It. Is. Not. A. Rela--"

"So! She's a good girl? Is it serious?"

Wolfwood let out a frustrated puff of air. Nobody interrupted better than this guy. He was the master. "No. Not serious. Not yet. It's...too new. But I like her. Maybe she likes me, too."

"And what about Vash?"

"_Detective_ Saverem. You've got a one-track mind. Why do you have to harp on it? Can't you let it go? As a favor?"

"No. And the answer to why is because I've been your department assigned psychiatrist and mental watchdog for over a year now and the situation between you and your partner only gets sadder and more pathetic every time I see you. I can only assume it's been like this all three years of your partnership. That's a long time. Whatever it is between you--_whatever_ it is you feel for him, sexual or not, and _whatever_ he feels for you--it needs to be resolved. It puts both of you in a dangerous position."

"What are you saying?" Wolfwood growled.

"Humor me. Imagine that something happens to Vash in the line of duty. Or worse, that he gets killed. Would you be able to act and think rationally without him? Would you be able to follow orders?"

Wolfwood's brow wrinkled, but he didn't answer. He was thinking and everything he thought made his fists clench at his sides. A world where Vash died...

A world without Vash...

The psychiatrist watched his patient for a long moment; the expressions that flitted over his face in a matter of seconds would have kept any artist frantic for years just trying to capture them. Sitting forward, he whispered, "If you have to think about it, then you already know the answer. You do, don't you, Nick?"

Wolfwood flexed his hands as he stared down at them. "Listen. Doc. About Detective Saverem...and me. The truth is that we...I..."

"Well, look at the time!" the doc said so abruptly that Wolfwood jumped. Then he glared at the doctor. Interrupted again.

"You've served your time for this week," the man--who Wolfwood now officially considered evil--continued. "If you don't like seeing me, stop punching your superiors. They don't send people in for psychological examinations if they're well-behaved, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The two men stood and shook hands.

"So, I'll see you next week and that will be it for you for awhile. Until then, my advice is to either get a new partner or screw the one you've got."

The deep breath he took almost wasn't enough to calm him. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that. But only because I don't want to be arrested for re-arranging your smug, butt-ugly face."

"Success! I think you're learning self-control. Keep it up. Next week we'll start on the alphabet."

Wolfwood turned and walked away, fighting the urge to smile along with the urge to haul off and punch the shrink square in his jaw.

"Oh, and say hello to _Vash_ for me," he heard from behind him.

Wolfwood ground his teeth together. "Sure thing, doc."

He had just made it to the door when his cell phone rang.

"Hello?" he asked, stepping into the hallway where he could escape the shrink's curious gaze. He pointedly slammed the door in the other man's face when he made to follow.

"Nick? Nick? It's me. Milly."

The warmth that tingled up his spine wasn't his imagination. Milly. Maybe today wasn't such a bad day after all. But something in her voice worried him. She sounded like...

"What's wrong?" He hadn't meant to bark it, but that's how it came out.

"Oh..." she said, as if his suddenly anxious tone startled her. As if she was certain she had done a good job at hiding the shaking of her voice and couldn't imagine that he had seen through it so quickly. "I...I'm just..." _terrified_, "and I just don't want..." _to be alone_. "What I mean is...are you busy?"

And now it was his own words that surfaced to his mind.

_"South District is collaborating with other districts on this case and plans to expand the number of stations and officers involved. I have been asked to reassure the public that we're doing everything we can to capture Picasso..."_

On his desk were dozens of files. Dozens and dozens. He had calls to return and messages to listen to and a partner to try and face without embarrassment and...

"Not busy at all," he said. A knot he hadn't noticed before--but that must have been there for a long time--suddenly unraveled inside him.

* * *

Part XX: A Drink

* * *

He picked her up half an hour later. She went cautiously to the window when she heard the car slow outside. She met him at the door as he pulled in to her small driveway. She didn't know where his station was in relation to her house, but she got the impression that he'd sped the whole way. He pulled in smoothly considering his car was what her brother called a "land yacht", dwarfing her own small car where it was parked in the grass. 

She went out to meet him before he could even cut the engine. Even shaken as she was, Milly felt like dog whistling at the car the same way the construction workers downtown whistled at her.

"Nice car," she complimented when he stepped out to get the door for her. Wolfwood noticed that her voice was rough and she was doing a bad job at hiding it. It sounded like she either had a cold, or had swallowed battery acid.

"Thanks." He got the feeling he should say more, but the words died on his lips. Milly looked bad. Her eyes were smudged with purple and her face was blotchy as if she had been crying. It looked as if she had lost twenty pounds since he last saw her.

When they were both seated, he turned to her. "Are you okay? You don't look so good." He put a hand on her shoulder and she gasped and pulled away.

"Sorry...it's out of place. I...slipped. But I'm...okay," she said. But her eyes were too bright and her cheeks were flushed. Her hands shook where they clasped her large purse.

He didn't believe her. He didn't have to. Instead of prying, he said, "Okay, so where do you want to go?"

She bit her lip, thinking. She wanted to be somewhere bright. Somewhere loud. Somewhere where she knew she wasn't alone.

"How about a drink?" Her voice was a poor imitation of her usual cheer and it made him clutch the steering wheel tightly.

"Sounds fine. A bar?"

"Yes. I think so. Some place...lively."

So he drove.

The place he decided on was as lively as he felt comfortable with and it was relatively close. At one point on the drive through the dark, streetlight-lined roads, he almost took a familiar corner to the right. Only a glance at Milly kept him from completing it. Instead, his heart suddenly speeding, he went straight for a long stretch, old pubs and clubs springing up along either side of them now. He parallel parked on the street, got out when traffic slowed, and then rounded the car to get the door for Milly.

She moved stiffly, holding her shoulder from time to time.

The bar was called "Sweet Trees" and it was never quiet. Not even on a Wednesday. He'd been here a few times before and liked the atmosphere. It wasn't trashy or overflowing with horny teens. They kept the bathrooms clean and the tables wiped. The dance floor was large enough for people to actually dance on, instead of just grinding and rutting together. He didn't mind taking Milly here.

He found a nice table where they could talk and watch the floor, and then made to go get drinks.

"I'll come with you," Milly said abruptly.

"You don't have to, I can--"

"I want to."

"Okay. Ladies first." He gave a gentlemanly bow and then followed her swinging ponytail to the bar. Under the neon lights, they hailed the bartender and placed their orders: a coke for him, a Long Island ice tea for Milly.

The bartender gave Milly a sceptical look. Wolfwood couldn't say he blamed him: Milly had a way of seeming younger than she was. Maybe it was her eyes, too wide, too blue. Maybe it was the way she carried herself at times, like she was still in high school, waiting to be asked to the prom.

"ID, please," the bartender said. Still shaky, she reached into her purse, pulled out a wallet, and then from that retrieved a driver's license. She handed it over with a thin smile.

"Thank you," the large man said and handed it back, then turned his frowning face to Wolfwood. "You, too," he said.

Wolfwood gaped at him. "Me? But I'm having a coke!"

"And I don't care. ID." Wolfwood noticed that the bartender had made his voice a whole lot nicer when speaking to Milly. Grumbling, he fished out his ID. "You know, they checked us at the door..."

"And those stamps they put on the kid's hands wash right off if you have the right chemicals," the bartender answered. He gave the card a double take, tried to stop his lips from twitching, and then handed the card back with a gruff smile. "You're all right," he said. "Have a coke and a smile."

Wolfwood smirked at the lame joke, reached for his ID and then frowned. The card _had_ been right in front of him. Yet, somehow, his fingers had closed around thin air.

He heard a giggle that sent the bubbles swirling inside his gut again.

"Oh, my god. This is priceless," Milly squealed. Dreading the worse, Wolfwood turned his head and was treated to the sight of Milly's cheeks red with a blush and her hand over her smiling mouth. In her other hand was his driver's license.

"If I pay you, would you pretend you never saw that?" he whined, covering his eyes.

"Hey, buddy, everyone takes bad license pictures," the bartender consoled him. "My wife says I look like a tank in mine."

Wolfwood held his tongue about the picture probably doing the bartender a world of good, and instead mumbled insincere thanks.

"Just tryin' to cheer you up." The bartender shrugged his big shoulders.

"Right. Okay," Wolfwood said, grabbing their drinks and leading Milly, gasping for air, back to their table. It had been stolen by a pair of goths while they were at the bar, but they found another easily. Or rather, Wolfwood did as Milly was almost doubled over. It took a moment for her to sit down.

"W-what did you d-do to your hair?" she managed around her laughter. Her eyes were dancing with it.

In answer, Wolfwood ran two fingers over his head like a pair of scissors and made a noise like a buzz saw.

"You cut it off?" Milly asked. Now her eyes were wide and curious but her smile never faltered. It was at his expense, that was true, but seeing Milly's mind on something other than what had frightened her so badly was worth it.

"All of it," he answered. "But that was over two years ago. Almost three."

"You look like a Q-tip."

"Thanks. Just laugh it up. Don't let me stop you."

"I'm sorry, Nick. I'm trying not to..." She had to cover her mouth again.

"Just don't call me 'Eight Ball' or 'Lex Luthor.' My partner never stopped thinking those two were hilarious. Even months and months after my hair was almost completely back. He left messages on my cell phone for 'Lex' and put bottles of Mr. Clean on my desk."

She finally got the giggles out of her system and handed him back his license. "Your partner sounds like a character."

He was anxious to keep this going, this talk. As the seconds went by, he saw the tension draining from her shoulders. He hadn't expected the evening to go well after seeing her how shaken she was--like a victim in shock--and he was angry thinking that something or someone had hurt her. But if she didn't want to tell him, he couldn't make her. All he could do was impersonate Vash and simply _be_ there for her. He could make her feel comfortable; he could help her relax.

He'd hunt down the responsible party and kill them later.

"He is," he said with a smile. "You'd like him."

"I think I would," she said thoughtfully. "But...why did you cut all your hair off?"

"Sorry ma'am," he drawled, cowboy style. "I'd tell you, but it's a state secret." He tipped an imaginary hat and winked.

She dropped her chin onto her fist and took a sip of her drink. "Ohh, like undercover work?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds exciting. I've always wondered."

"About what?"

"Well, about what the police _do_, I guess." She waved a hand at him. He noticed that it was steady and sent up silent thanks.

"On TV and in the movies it's nothing but car chases, explosions, raids, hostage situations. Lots of intrigue. You know: 'Cops was filmed on location in Los Angeles," she finished, trying her best to lower her voice to a manly pitch.

Wolfwood took a drink to hide his goofy smile. She saw it anyway.

"Well, sometimes it's like that. But mainly it's paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork and phone calls. It gets pretty annoying, but it's better than all the Harrison Ford stuff. A whole lot safer too since he gets stunt doubles."

Milly twirled her straw between her fingers. "I know how you feel about the paperwork. It. Never. Ends." She stuck out her tongue.

"Yeah? Well tell me about it," Wolfwood said and made himself comfortable. For some reason, Milly wasn't ill at ease with him like Lisa Morgan or Meryl Strife or a million other people had been. She talked to him. She laughed at his jokes. She laughed at his ID. He wanted to hear anything she had to say, even if it was just about paperwork.

And suddenly, Milly found that she _did_ want to tell him. About her job and her family and her free time and all the little things in between. She wanted to tell him...everything.

And just for a moment, too brief for all that life is long, she felt protected. Like castle walls surrounded them and blocked out the music from the dance floor and the rumbling murmurs of strangers. His eyes were blue pools in the dark and they watched her, overflowing with so much kindness she almost couldn't believe it.

Just for those few hours where the two of them disappeared into their own little world spun from conversation and laugher, she felt so safe she forgot what had brought Nick to her side at all.

And on the drive back, she fell asleep on his shoulder.

* * *

She awoke feeling weightless. The stars were floating above her, the sky as clear as she could ever recall seeing it. Weightless and floating. And then she felt the arms holding her and the chest she pressed into. A second later and she was looking at her own front door. 

He lowered her gently until she could stand on her own. She slid down him, rumpling his shirt even more. He steadied her by holding on to her upper arms and his hands stayed there even long after she could stand on her own.

"Sleep well?"

The corner of her mouth pulled up. "Yes."

"Well. You're home. I had fun," he admitted. "And I--"

"You can come in," she said hastily and then winced. Wolfwood only smiled. It was much nicer being interrupted by Milly than that damn psychiatrist.

"Yeah?"

"That sounded wrong," she tried again. "I'm not...coming on to you or anything...like that. But...I...don't want to be alone."

Swallowing the lump in his throat delayed his response. "Well. Then I'd like that. If you'd let me. I'd like that."

She gave a weak smile, nodded her head, and then fumbled around for her keys.

"How many pockets do you _have_ in that purse?"

"A lot."

"I can see that."

But all too soon they were standing inside. She locked the door. As if the dark scared her, she flipped on every light switch and every lamp nearby.

"I'm not so good at this," she said.

"Me neither."

She waved at what he assumed was the way to her kitchen. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No."

"Oh, well then. I guess..."

"I can sleep on the couch, Milly."

She looked up sharply. He imagined that her gaze saw far too much of him all at once. "You don't have to," she whispered.

"If that's where you want me to sleep, then, yes, I do."

She suddenly dropped her head and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. He realized how tired she was, how run ragged and tired. "No, I don't want you sleeping on the couch," she said. "But...I don't want to..._do_ anything, either. Not y--"

"I understand." He took her hand and kissed it, pulling another smile from her, this one stronger.

In silence, still holding his hand, she led him deeper into the house, flipping lights on and off as needed, like a child afraid of the dark. Any curtain that was even partially drawn, she shut firmly.

When she stopped and released his hand, Wolfwood found himself in a bedroom tidy enough to be his own. Or the feminine version. The sheets on the large bed were patterned with wildflowers and the walls were lemony cream. There were bows in places he would have never put them and pictures of hazy gardens on the walls. A fraying cat toy with huge green eyes stared up at him from a cushioned chair.

"Cute," he said.

"Thanks." Then she backed away from him, scurrying like a mouse into the adjoining bathroom only to emerge a moment later in pajamas that matched the cream of the walls. They were too big for her and made her seem too young.

Wolfwood had kicked off his shoes and placed all the things he usually carried with him--badge, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, belt, holster--on the bedside table. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair, keeping the cat company. His gun sat safely in the glove compartment of his car.

And then she was standing before him, leaning in, reaching past him. The lights went out.

In the dark, he found her hands and together the two of them, Milly leading, found the bed and then settled onto it. It was one of those beds that are almost too soft. Wolfwood sank into it, almost like falling. And then Milly sank against him, which wasn't bad at all. He put his arms around her and smiled at the feel of her fingers running over the buttons on his shirt absently.

"Thank you," she said in a voice so quiet he would have missed it had he shifted even slightly. "I feel better."

"I'm glad. Anytime. Just call me. Please."

Her eyes drifted shut. "I will."

He listened to her breathing long after that, staring into the dark and feeling thawed out, alive, and warm. Like a bird must feel, slipping and falling from the earth and landing on nothing but cloud-filled skies. Free.

Happy.

To be continued...

Oops. I really did mean to put the investigation in here, but it got cut when this ended up too long. But next chapter! Yes, the investigation WILL continue. I had considered delaying the opening scene with Milly and putting it last, but I figured you guys have been so good putting up with me that you didn't deserve being made to wait to find out what happened to her.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Too smart for your own good, the lot of you. By the way, if this chapter seemed at all weird, it's because it was an experiment. I got a critique from a friend and she said I should try using more dialogue. So here it is, me trying out dialogue. What did you think?


	10. God Willing

Warnings: Strong language. Homosexual and heterosexual implications. Not beta-read. Fighting a computer virus that messes with my documents. Please forgive the formatting problems.

* * *

Part XXI: God Willing

* * *

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood clasped his hands together and tried harder to make it stop. It wouldn't. 

Kelly Morgan was dead. He couldn't catch the man responsible.

He raised his voice as a last resort. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done..."

Kelly Morgan had been dead for two weeks. Picasso was still out there. And it was keeping him awake at night. Part of it was knowing what he knew: that Picasso seemed to enjoy more than torturing his victims by ruining their lives. He also enjoyed hunting the investigators who pursued him. He wouldn't stop until they gave up. Just like Frank before him, Wolfwood knew that Picasso would come for him next. But how and when, those things he would never really know. The files on Picasso never mentioned that the detectives on the case were stalked and tormented. He had no officially documented stories, just Frank's horrifying account of finding his little girl dangling from a tree by her wrists. There was nothing else. Fear was to blame for that; each detective had been afraid for his life and his sanity had they warned anyone, going against Picasso's wishes.

"On Earth as it is in Heaven..." he said, his voice growing as his thoughts darkened. If only they would be quiet, he could pray. But as it was...

The floor of the church cut into his knees. The stained glass windows above looked eerie and taunting with nothing but nighttime shining through them. The wood of the pews, the wax drying on the floor, the bibles lodged into the back of the bench before him--it all smelled the same: unshakable, permanent, heavy with the kind of weight that can crush or lift. Depending.

"Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

The month of June was slipping away from him. Picasso always followed a pattern. Two victims in June, two victims in July, one in August. And then silence while the sun cooled and the leaves and snow fell. He killed in the summer. He was a man obsessed with patterns, with perfection. _Two in June. Two in June..._

So he would kill again and soon. But when. Where?

He finished the prayer on a whisper, his eyes squeezed shut, desperate to make his words and feelings get through. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory for ever and ever. In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, Amen."

He crossed himself quickly and touched the chain around his neck to his lips. Those final words seemed to give him strength for he exited the church looking less hopeless than when he had entered it.

He would go home, he would think. And tomorrow, he'd go to work sit down with Vash and get something accomplished. He would try again. God willing, things would change.

God willing.

* * *

He'd been busy since that damn press conference. He felt the phrase, "You have two hands, do it yourself!" and its cousin, "Can't you people do anything without me?" on the tip of his tongue daily. His coffee intake had increased. 

Part of the problem was that his other cases kept getting in the way. An arrest in a manslaughter case--finally--on Sunday and a court appearance on Monday had kept him from the serial killer investigation better than anything else could. And all the paperwork they created certainly didn't help any. But after he finished that, he'd be down to only Picasso and four other cases. That was something to look forward to. Until then, he was as busy as ever. He opened another file tiredly and took his pen in hand again. The evening lingered just like this damn paperwork.

Of course, it wasn't all bad. There was Milly, for example.

Since the night she had called him--worried, nervous, in pain--they had spent quite a lot of time together. Wolfwood wondered if it was a good idea to see so much of her, fearing that she would realize all too soon that he had...problems. But even thinking that, he wanted to see her and when she called he just felt _good_. His only worry was that she still seemed afraid of something. As if her own shadow was dangerous. He couldn't pry the reason from her. The most she had said was, "It's nothing. It's silly. Just a bad dream."

Whenever he met her, she always seemed weary and nervous. It was only after they spoke for awhile, only after he made some ridiculous joke, that she warmed up and smiled. He worried that it was him, that he was the cause of her troubles. But all too soon he had noticed that it was the opposite. Somehow or another, he was the cure. She wanted to be around him and he couldn't fathom why.

He had spent a lot of time at her place in the past few days, holding her while she slept and feeling as if he could quit the force now and simply _live_, like anyone else. With Milly curled up at his side. True, he still couldn't sleep, but what was that, in the end?

Another good thing about being so busy was that he hadn't seen Vash for longer than twenty minutes at a time. Since his meeting with the shrink, Wolfwood didn't quite know how to approach his partner. Things had been awkward enough between them from time to time without that damn head doctor trying to put a name to it. But today he couldn't avoid it. They had work to do, notes to compare, and a game plan to draw. He'd have to see his partner and act as if nothing had changed. And perhaps nothing had.

The double knock came. Vash followed it. In his hand was a box of donuts partially stained with the grease it took to make them. Wolfwood figured he'd gain five pounds just looking at one of these things. Vash's tastes ran to the more exotic types of donuts: the jelly-filled sprinkle-saturated, chocolate-dripping kind. It was easier to look at the donuts than to meet his partner's eyes.

"Hungry?" Vash asked, holding up the box like a proud hunter back from slaying a bison with his bare hands and a pointy stick. He noticed the dark circles under his partner's eyes, the crappy job he had done shaving. He said nothing about it.

"Starving."

"Donuts?"

"How about we order something?"

"But I've got donuts."

"And you can have them for dessert. I want real food. Pizza?"

Vash scratched his smooth chin. "Make it Chinese and you're on."

So the order was placed and the two men got to work while they waited. Vash carried on as usual, smiling at all the right jokes, nodding at all the right information. He was either unaware that Wolfwood was uncomfortable or doing a very good job at pretending. His eyes drifted to the donuts longingly from time to time, but he was ready to work despite his sweet tooth.

The first thing that needed their attention was the photo albums from Lisa Morgan.

"She said that the pictures aren't really in order. She tried but they got mixed up." Wolfwood lugged the stack to his desk. They made a loud thud when he set them down. A puff of dust hit him in the face and he coughed. "These two," he said, pointing at the topmost albums,"should have most of the vacation photos. We should probably start with them."

"Can do," Vash said. He pulled one of the two towards him, opened it up and started flipping. Wolfwood watched him for a moment. It was amazing how he could focus so intently on one thing because it was the right thing to do. He shook himself out of it and followed Vash's lead, sitting down and pulling the second album to him. It had seen better days, but the pictures inside were well protected beneath the sticky plastic that held them.

It made for interesting flipping. It was almost like walking into the wrong family reunion. He knew everyone was_someone_ to_somebody_, but none of the people he saw meant anything to him. All the faces of people he didn't know set his mind to wondering. Who was the chubby man with the dog and the little girl on the pony? This one who looked so much like Kelly, was she a cousin? As he went further into the tattered album, he felt as if he had dived into someone's life headfirst and was wading through an ocean of memories where the sound had been shut off. The only thing to be heard while he looked was the pages slapping together gently as he and Vash turned them.

Finally, he arrived at a large section of images from Kelly's vacation. The Southern Inn and Lodge where the she had stayed was a nice hotel from what he could see. It was near enough to the coast to provide access to the beaches, but had all the conveniences a traveler needed from the city. It was painted a glowing Caribbean white and had tropical looking trees in pots all around the doors. They had done a good job at creating an island paradise for all that it was only a few hours away from July. Kelly and Angela smiled and gestured in every picture. There were a few embarrassing candid shots of Angela brushing her teeth and Kelly putting on her makeup. But mostly, the two of them saw the sights together or relaxed in the beautiful hotel.

He finished with one album and moved on to another. Vash had done the same. His head was bowed and he looked so very serious that Wolfwood almost laughed.

The food arrived. Wolfwood treated, tipped the delivery guy and then settled down with his messy styrofoam container of something with lots of sauce and meat. Vash dug in happily. He did an impressive job balancing an album on his lap while holding his own delicate paper carton of something with noodles long enough to fish with. He used the complimentary chopsticks like a pro.

"You know," he said, chewing thoughtfully, "I've seen this guy three times now."

Wolfwood swallowed and frowned. "What guy?"

"This guy." He juggled the album and his food to show the picture to Wolfwood.

The image was of Kelly Morgan and Angela Beasley in a bar--probably the hotel's. They had tall drinks in their hands and were holding up peace signs. They looked very silly, very happy, and so very innocent. Wolfwood squinted at the picture. It was the background that was the problem. The picture was actually of_three _people: Kelly, Angela, and a man, off to the side and back. He was tall and thin and his hair was very pale, almost white in the flash. His back was to the camera but his figure was blurred. It was as if he had turned away just in time to avoid having his picture taken.

Something clicked.

Wolfwood wrestled an album he had already looked through back in front of him. After a moment's flipping, he found it. It took some work to wiggle the picture from the sticky plastic that held it. Once he did, he turned it towards his partner, looking triumphant and confused all at once. This picture showed the girls on a beach beside a sandcastle. But off to the right, this time in sunglasses, was Blondie.

"Same guy?" he asked.

"Same guy," Vash said, sitting forward excitedly. His food was forgotten and his chopsticks stuck out of the carton at odd angles.

Trust Vash's eye to see something so hidden. "I didn't notice it till you said it, but I've passed this same guy at least three times. Now what--" Wolfwood began.

"--are the chances the same guy--" Vash said, picking up the sentence easily.

"--would be in more than one of their pictures?" Wolfwood finished. "And they're all on different days, at different times. The clothing changes, see? And he's dressed in civies. He's not a waiter or a bellboy."

"A vacationer?"

"Okay, I could believe that. But no camera, no...sandles and ugly floral shirts." Wolfwood gestured vaguely.

"I like those kind of shirts."

"You have horrible taste. But seriously, who is this guy?" The two of them were silent, returning to their meals for a moment while they thought. Vash slurped his noodles and Wolfwood stabbed his over-sauced chicken with a cheap plastic fork. He chewed with a look on his face that showed he wasn't really tasting anything.

Vash finished the last of his noodles then shook his head as if to knock his thoughts into place. "Did they go on vacation with anyone? Boyfriends...?"

"Kelly's mother said they went alone, just the two of them. But kids lie." Wolfwood shrugged his shoulders. Could Blondie be some friend of Kelly's? Someone she met secretly while she took a vacation at the beach? It seemed unlikely. This stranger was lurking in the background. Watching them?

Vash's tone made him sound older than his years as he asked, "And if they were telling the truth?"

"_If _they were telling the truth and they really did go alone, then this guy is a problem and I want to meet him. Hell, I want to meet him either way. Even if he's just a guy with amazing timing, he saw Angela Beasley before she was killed and I'm willing to bet my car he's not in that file anywhere."

Vash whistled. "Your car? Your baby? That's serious."

"This just feels weird," Wolfwood admited. "This guy shows up in at least six of their pictures? S'not normal."

"And besides all that," Vash said, fishing through the paper delivery bag for fortune cookies, "I got a question for you." He tossed one of the cookies to Wolfwood who smirked and caught it. Both of them fumbled with the plastic wrapping.

"Listening," Wolfwood said as he cracked his cookie in two and took the tiny piece of paper from inside.

"The two of them are in most every picture_together_. If they went on vacation by themselves," Vash began mimicking Wolfwood and breaking open his own cookie, "then who took the pictures?"

"Ah, that could have been anybody," Wolfwood answered. "A fellow traveler, a hotel employee."

"Yeah, I thought that at first, too." Vash glanced down at the paper he pulled from his cookie and then smirked. He looked his partner in the eye as he said, "But then I noticed: there are dozens of these pictures."

Wolfwood didn't understand at first, and then he looked down at the photo album in front of him. It was true: there were multiple shots in each location. Almost like a photo shoot, you could follow Kelly and Angela through their trip very easily. What "fellow traveler" would stick with a pair of giggly girls long enough to take more than one picture for them? He figured most Good Samaritans had a one-picture limit.

_If they went on vacation by themselves, who took the pictures?_

"Who indeed..." Wolfwood said. He popped his cookie in his mouth and chewed, thinking. Perhaps God _was_ willing, after all.

"So, we've got a mystery person in more pictures than is normal and a mystery person taking the pictures in the first place." Vash gave a helpless little shrug. "It might mean nothing. It might mean everything."

"That makes absolutely no sense, Vash. You know that, right?"

"Yep."

Wolfwood eyed him wearily, but not without fondness. "Well, we better call up the boys. If we're gonna make a move, we'll need everyone."

"I'll get on that right away. But first..?"

"Yeah?"

"What's your fortune?"

Wolfwood looked startled for a moment as if he had forgotten the small strip of paper in his hand. He read with mock seriousness, "Love is not made beautiful by what you get, but by what you give."

Both men waited for three seconds and then added, "In bed." Then they laughed like teenagers. The old joke never lost its appeal for some reason. It made reading these damn cheesyfortunesworthwhile, at least. "How about you?" Wolfwood asked.

"I actually got two," Vash answered and held them up as proof.

"Is that good luckor bad?"

"I don't know, but here goes." He cleared his throat. "The first says: Your fortunes are about to change."

"In bed," they chimed together and laughed again. Wolfwood was sure the joke would get old someday, he just didn't know when that might be.

"And number two?"

"A friend in need," Vash said and paused dramatically, "is a friend indeed."

"In bed," they said together one last time. The laughter was twice as loud this time, but Wolfwood squirmed uncomfortably, knowing that his was forced. He had an answer to his question: the joke would get old when it touched too close to home.

* * *

Part XXII: Shindig

* * *

Vash, leaning against the long table at the front of the meeting room, crossed his arms and looked around at the gathering of men and women before him. They were a mismatched bunch, uniforms of different colors, the patches on their sleeves as unalike as could be. The detectives stood out in their suits and ties and here and there was one who couldn't go five minutes without even an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. The meeting room was non-smoking and Vash was glad. 

Itheld only about 25 people, half of its capacity, but the officers were spread out into clusters. Like gang loyalty, Vash thought. The men and women of the 22nd precinct only sat next to other twenty-twos. The 42nd precinct was a cluster of haggard older guys in the back. Vash's own precinct, the South 33rd, stayed as close to him as possible, all of them sitting at the front of the room like teacher's pets. The officers who were neither JCPD, nor even in their same district, looked a little out of place and somewhat intimidated by Vash. His involvement in the Leatherman case contributed to the air of importance that seemed to hang around him today. His appearance didn't hurt it.

Vash certainly looked impressive; his height was almost towering and the hoop in his ear gave him a badboy charm. His shoulders were sharp and clean in his white button down, and his muscled forearms stood out thanks to the rolled up sleeves that bunched around his biceps. Occasionally he glanced at the clock, the white screen behind him, or to the shuttered white blinds hiding the view out the windows, wishing them away. It was a beautiful day and here he was, cooped inside handling a bit of tedious, tiring, but necessary business.

The group showed no signs of settling down on their own. He gave a long-suffering sigh. "Okay, people. Let's get started."

The room of officers, detectives and beat cops quieted instantly. Every pair of eyes in the room fastened on him expectantly. He didn't like the attention, but he was used to it now. Working with Wolfwood these past few years had kept him perpetually under the scrutiny of his peers and coworkers. And to think that only two days ago he had been sitting in Wolfwood's office, eating Chinese and donuts and making arrangements. Planning a meeting like this with his partner was worlds away from actually leading one when all eyes were on him.

A cynical man might have said that everyone was watching in hopes of catching him in a mistake--that they only wanted to see him fail. But to someone with a mind like Vash's, they were simply watching, waiting for_Something_. He suspected they were hoping that one day he would tell_the_ story. Maybe they believed that if they studied him long and hard enough, they could put all the pieces together themselves and figure out what it was that he knew, and Wolfwood knew, but what neither would tell.

"Detective Vash Saverem, JCPD," he introduced himself, unnecessarily. Every officer in the room was part of the Picasso investigation, and therefore directly under his partner's jurisdiction. And Vash's come to that. They received daily memos from him on their desks; they ignored phone calls from him when they were swamped. But a formality was a formality.

"Thank you all for coming and on such short notice. Detective Wolfwood is taking an unexpected conference call. Again. So I'll be handling this little departmental shindig until he's back. Anybody has a problem with that: too bad." He gave a roguish smile and earned a few chuckles, particularly from the 33rd who were used to his antics. The visitors from other departments exchanged worried glances. They simply hadn't worked with him enough to know if he was being serious or not.

Vash consulted the list on the clipboard beside him on the table and then continued.

"First things first: we're in a sticky place where the press is concerned. We're going to be pulling a pretty balancing act. We still want the press to keep the public aware of the risks: young, single females should avoid being alone and should report any strange occurrences to the tip line at once. It's the same as before. But with things the way they are, keeping it that simple is difficult."

"Yeah," someone grumbled. Vash's blue eyes swivelled to the speaker, a detective from the 42nd. "I saw the report from Old Man Cain same as everybody here. If Morgan died 'cause her neck got snapped, then I'm the Tin Man and the Commissioner is Dorothy."

Vash spoke over the laughter. "Then you can call me the Scarecrow because, as far as the press is concerned, that's what happened. The leak to the papers about the forensic report was 'unacceptable.' Not my word: that came down from chief Bennigan. And_he _got it from the commissioner. " The room went silent at his serious tone.

"We're 'pretty sure' it wasn't one of ours, and I'm thinking all of you are 'pretty sure' it wasn't one of yours. But, frankly, pretty sure isn't good enough at this point. From now on, all of us need to be certain that nothing is leaked. Detective Wolfwood will be handling the media from now on--"

Someone mumbled, "About time," but Vash let it slide. It's what Wolfwood would have wanted him to do.

"--so please don't feel obligated to answer any inquiries you receive. Direct any questions that are unlike those on the prints your receive to Detective Wolfwood or myself."

He paused to make sure he was understood, consulted his clipboard one again and continued. "Next on the list: following up hints and leads from the hotline. June's almost over. Picasso has followed a pattern for every year he's been active. We can expect another victim, and soon. Which is why we have to take care with any information we receive."

And he talked and they listened and the minutes ticked by. All too soon he was signalling for someone to shut off the lights. He fumbled with the station's somewhat outdated projector for a moment. The machine was clunky and tended to go crooked at odd times. But it worked. Using the small remote in his hand, he flipped through the images. First a newspaper clipping pulled up onto the screen. It proclaimed that Picasso wasn't human. He glanced over his shoulder, and then flipped past it quickly until an image of the Angela Beasley's hotel flashed on the screen. He stopped there.

"Can't see a thing!" someone cried out from the dark.

Vash looked behind him and realized that he was in the way, his shadow on the screen and half of the image across his white shirt. He stepped to the side.

"Okay, boys," he said with a sigh, "we've got work to do."

This would have been easier with Wolfwood around, he realized as he explained the current situation. Even to his own ears, the evidence sounded flimsy. A hotel that may or may not be related to the murders? A mysterious man in a few vacation pictures? There were dozen's of questions from the floor, a few complaints about being spread too thin, and more than a little grumbling about the commissioner expecting too much from them.

"That may be the case," Vash said, interrupting a grizzlydetective from the 42nd, "but even if we_don't_ have the resources, we're going to have to make the best of what we have until we can--"

But here the door at the back of the room opened. Every head swivelled. In all that black in the middle of June, Wolfwood blended too well with the darkened meeting room. His jacket was hooked onto one finger and dangling down his back and he wore acocky smile.

"Like a bloody GQ model," someone whispered, not bothering to keep their voice quiet.

"Sorry I'm late," Wolfwood said. He strolled into the room, ignoring the eyes that followed him and stopped before his partner.

"'bout time," Vash said with a raised brow.

"Miss me?" Wolfwood asked before he thought it through. Only after he said it did he regret it.

"Maybe, Vash answered.

The gathering of officers leaned forward, trying to hear the exchange. The two men spoke with their heads bowed together, obviously talking about something vital and important. Everyone excluded from the conversation was dying to know what it was about.

"It's just that you've been spending an awful lot of time with her is all," Vash said, almost huffily. "And you said she's pretty, so I want to meet her."

Wolfwood frowned. "Hands off of Milly, womanizer."

"I'm_not_ a womanizer, I just appreciate femine beauty."

Maybe, the officers wondered as the conversation extended, Wolfwood's conference call had been something related to the case. A breakthrough? And now the lead detectives were discussing this hot imformation with hushed whispers, keeping them out of the loop. God they wanted to_know_.

Wolfwood scrubbed at his face. "A double date? As in: me, Milly, you and...who? Who would you even invite?"

"I dunno." Vash grinned widely. "That PR girl is kinda cute. Short, but cute. And she needs to relax. But she's cute."

"I'm not discussing this with you anymore," Wolfwood hissed. "We're in the middle of a meeting, here!"

"Fine, fine," Vash capitulated. "How was the conference call?"

"Boring. How's the meeting?"

"I never realized these guys could complain so much."

"It's what they're good at," Wolfwood explained.

"Oh, by the way," Vash said, "the chief says that 'if you spent as much time on the Picasso case as you do taking conference calls with the feds to help them with their investigations, you'd have caught the bastard by now.' Hey, don't look at me like that, I'm just the messenger."

"Awfully brave of Bennigan to send the message through you."

"Those bruises haven't faded, I can't say I blame him."

And with that the two of them separated and Wolfwood stepped to the front, the projection of the hotel wrapping around his body. He didn't seem to mind the light or to care that he was blocking the view. Vash casually slipped to stand behind him and to the right. It was strangely like the changing of the guard and no one could doubt that the meeting now belonged to Wolfwood. He threw his jacket on the table.

"Okay, I see that Detective Saverem has brought you up to speed on most everything."

The damn grumbling came again.Vash was right: these guys were master complainers.

"Seems like a goose chase," someone said.

Wolfwood had to admit that that was exactly what it seemed like.But if a goose chase yielded results, then it stopped being one, didn't it? "Okay...I see what you mean.And this hotel may not seem like much of a lead, but it's what we've got. Even if it's just a cursery look, we need to find out what we can about who's been in this hotel and how it's connected to our killer."

The grumbling started up again--full blast--and then died down abruptly. Vash had accidentally hit the forward button on the projecter. The picture that slid forward with an over-loud_click_, was gruesome. The girl in the picture was a broken pile of bones, one of the earliest of Picasso's victims. Her hair was dyed a sickly shade of red. There was more blood than skin showing. It coated the nearby walls and ran in puddles on the floor. But what was most disturbing was that, standingbeforeit as he was,the image covered Wolfwood like a second skin. The blood and bones shifted over his white shirt and face, painting him in the colors of death. A few people squirmed in their seats. Wolfwood looked down at hishands as if fascinated by the crimson flowing over them, almost like tattoos.

Vash quickly hit the button, but this image, too, was a victim. As was the next. And the next. They worsened, the bodies like those of the unlucky ones in a car crash. He flipped through them madly then, each one projecting onto Wolfwood as he stood, impassively, while his body became the canvas of a madman.

Finally, Vash turned the projector off and signalled for the lights to be flipped back on. It was a relief when they flickered on cheerily. Wolfwood had their terrifiedattention. He looked perfectly at ease, though everyone else in the room was more than a littlesickened by what they had seen.

He crossed his arms and leaned his hips back agains the table behind him. "So we've got a little bit of a problem. We need to find out who's stayed at that place. We need to know who's come and gone--employees, guests, the works. And we need over five years worth of data. So..." he said conversationally, aiming the question at everyone, "say you want to access a hotel's records, but you want to do it without alerting anybody who_might_ be a suspect who_might _still be working there. What do you do?"

A young cop from the 22nd shrugged her shoulders and struggled to laugh away her discomfort. "In this day and age? Ha! You'd need a hacker to do it right."

Wolfwood smiled a wicked, mischievous smile. "Exactly," he said.

To be continued...

Thanks to everyone reading and sticking with this and especially the reviewers out there! And speaking of reviewers, if I don't answer a direct question from a review it's because I'm dodging it like no one has ever dodged before. I hope it's not too frustrating. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me!

If Wolfwood's prayer is different from the way you do/have done it, sorry if it was bothersome. Guess he just does things his own way.

Also, sorry about the cheesy re-cap style at the beginning and the "tell instead of show" style I used to make time pass. I had to move the case forward a few days or else, at this pace, we were never going to make it to the damn hotel. Good or bad, please let me know!

Up next: so you wanna meet a hacker?


	11. Hack

Warnings: Adult language. Disturbing content.

* * *

Part XXIII: Hack

* * *

Chief Bennigan's secretary cringed and then scrambled for her pen as it slipped from her fingers. The surprised look on her face was perfect enough to be in the dictionary under the word itself. She turned to Detective Vash Severem where he sat nearby, his hands knotted together in his lap and an apologetic look on his face. He had been sitting there for five minutes, ever since the chief had asked him to please step outside in the kind of voice akin to a contained explosion. 

The secretary tried to look supportive. The detective tried to smile. Both of them failed. Around the South 33rd station, cops and meter maids and hardened criminals froze and stared at the door of Bennigan's office. They imagined it rattling on its hinges.

"If this is the best you can do, then I don't know why the hell you're even here!"

Bennigan's voice, barely muffled by the door, created images of veins popping out of necks and foreheads. Had his wife heard, she would have warned him about losing his temper and said a few cautioning words about blood pressure.

"Chief, with all do respect, I don't think you're listening to me."

Detective Wolfwood's words would have sounded friendly had they not been screamed at glass-shattering volume.

"Oh, I'm listening. You want to waste time, resources, money, and men we don't have on a hunch."

"It's not just a hunch. There's evi--"

"There's jack diddly shit. I look at this and I don't see evidence. If I showed this to anybody and said, 'Hey, do you see evidence?' do you know what they'd say?"

"'Hell yes'?" Wolfwood spat.

"'Fuck no!' They'd call it what it is: a goose chase. And I don't care what the commissioner says; I'm not sold on your famous hunches. Trying to get approval for these resources? Trying to justify why we're doing what we're doing? God couldn't pull that off!"

"But if there is something there and we ignore it, we're negligent!"

Bennigan went silent then. Negligence was an ugly word. His voice was more of a booming hiss when next he spoke. "But if you do go in there, poke around and stir up trouble, and there's nothing, let me tell you this: I'd be the first in line to take a piece out of you. Do you know how much fun it would be to watch you get knocked onto your ass off your high horse?"

Now it was Vash's turn to cringe. The secretary raised her eyebrows imploringly at him as if to say, "The chief's really not such a bad guy. Once you get to know him. Honestly."

"So why put up the fight?" Wolfwood asked slyly. "Give me access to what I want, and you can sit back and watch me fall." The venom in his voice carried across the air though the station. You could almost imagine that Bennigan smiled, savoring the idea.

"Information services is busy," he said, but he already sounded resigned. "They've got dozens of computers to comb through from that fraud case."

"You can spare one."

"He's busy."

Wolfwood's voice took on a strange tenor, almost taunting. "Come on, chief, isn't it worth it? The department's spoiled Golden Boy slips up and you get to say, 'I told you so.' That's worth it, isn't it?"

Nothing else was said. There was what sounded like a paper being handed over and then what may have been the violent scribble of an unwilling signature.

The door opened one minute later. The secretary scrambled to look busy. The station went from dead silent to bustling instantly. Nobody was staring at the door anymore, but a few stole secretive glances towards it and the man in black standing before it. Wolfwood smirked.

Vash stood and gave his partner a disapproving look.

"What?" Wolfwood asked.

"Nothing," Vash answered. "I'm just disappointed: people in Utah didn't here you. And the dead were almost completely left out. Next time try harder."

* * *

Many of his old habits endured. They gave him an office with bright lights and he kept them off as if he feared a raid at any moment. Every criminal knows that it's hard for the cops to find you if they can't see you. The dark was their best friend. This one huddled in it like a caterpillar inside a cocoon. 

They gave him a state-of-the-art computer and he took it to pieces and rebuilt it because he wanted to "pimp it out, yo." The most Wolfwood could figure was that "pimping something out" meant making it into a hulking behemoth that could terrify small children. And one monitor wasn't enough. His desk was littered with them. Wolfwood imagined that the legs of the thing groaned under the weight of one of them, which had been converted from a widescreen television.

And a single 'box'? Unheard of. He had a fan going year-round to cool all the hard drives and servers and toys he had hooked to his system. Wires snaked up and over ever surface within arm's reach. He worked by himself because he'd scared everybody else away. They crouched in nearby offices together, afraid that he might come by and ask for a boot disk.

Vash flipped the lights on the minute he was in the room. He wasn't sure if the bat-like hissing of pain that came from behind the wall of technology was real or imagined. The loud, "Ouch. God! Turn 'em off, dammit!" was real enough.

Vash hurried to comply and a relieved sigh sounded through the air followed by, "Well, come on it." Now that he was back in his natural element of lightless deprivation, he sounded almost normal.

The detectives cautiously navigated their way into the dark office. It wasn't a small room since more than one programmer was meant to work there, but with all the equipment it was a maze. They stopped before the desk and waited for the dark haired boy to raise his head. When he did, he pulled one earphone off to give them his attention. The music from his headset was loud enough to flood the room. He left the other earphone on. Wolfwood guessed it was to prove that he was still who he was and who he was didn't care about them very much at all. It was an act and not a very believable one, but all three of them played along very well.

The teen, who looked at them with cold indifference, was a skinny configuration of elbows and arms too long to use them properly. Only his headset helped to control the scruffy mess of his hair. His shirt had an ancient, fading picture of some giant robot from an anime series on it. It wielded a long spear beneath stylized letters that proclaimed, "Teksetter!".

"S'up," Kaite said with a rebellious jerk of his head.

Wolfwood didn't answer immediately. Instead, he listened to the music that blasted from the headsets. "Nine Inch Nails?" he asked.

"Yeah, baby. An oldie but a goodie. You can't go wrong with 'em. Trent, see? He understands. About life."

"What about it?"

Kaite smiled. "It's fuckin' painful, dude."

Wolfwood regarded the youth in front of him and thought, not for the first time, that for someone so young, he had lived through quite a lot.

Kaite Trevisick's situation was special. He was so many things at once: an orphan, a runaway, a criminal, and a reluctant employee of the JCPD. Designer of a scam so perfect it had been doomed to fail, he had gotten rich quick at the age of 16. Online banking, he said, was a beautiful thing because people are stupid. They trust so easily. People enter their credit card numbers and account numbers and personal identification numbers into tiny little boxes online every day. And when they did, Kaite was there. He said it had been as easy as taking money from offshore mutual funds. Wolfwood hadn't been sure what that meant.

Unfortunately for Kaite and fortunately for the police, his status as millionaire only lasted about a month. Before he was caught, he had been the member of a small-time gang who had assisted him with his scam. But before they turned to the world of computer theft, they did little things: chop shops and nickel bags and convenience store hits. But meeting Kaite, a kid too smart for his own good, had given them an edge and the chance to make real money.

They got rich thanks to the kid, got scared with all that money in their hands, and when the heat got too hot, bailed on him. They left him to take the blame. He had been a minor, sure, almost untouchable. But there are still things you can do to a kid.

But Kaite, it seemed, was not one who valued loyalty highly. When the police said, "You wouldn't happen to know...?" they had been rewarded with the names of every member of his old gang, how to trace the money, where you could find their hideouts and anything else they thought they wanted to know. Really, just ask.

Revenge, Kaite said, fuckin' rocked.

But after that, setting him loose back into the world simply wasn't a good idea. It would be like putting him in a pair of fake antlers and sending him into the woods during deer season. Luckily, the police let all their threats of juvenile detention centers disappear provided Kaite joined their team and helped them catch people just like him. He hadn't been happy with the offer. According to him, he was a lot of terrible things--a crook, a liar, and a snitch--but the one thing he wasn't was "stinkin' pig". He lasted a day. When he had almost gotten knifed in an alley, had changed his mind.

So here he was, not quite a cop, he said, but almost as bad. He got protection, all the toys he could want to play with, and the knowledge that he was helping the police put an end to cyber crime. Too young for the force? Not at all. After all, if you're old enough and bad enough to commit a crime, then you ought to be old enough and bad enough to solve them. The rules were bent. Or broken completely as the case seemed to be. Two years later and Kaite was still at it, though he happily admitted that he only really cared about the toys.

"Brought you something," Wolfwood said and set the brown paper bag before Kaite. He tore it open.

"Ah, hell ya!" he shouted. "Meta-Capsule 3? Man, I've been wantin' this since I saw the commercial with the rocket launcher. This is hot, yo. Thanks." His expression was like that of any gamer envisioning hours of blissful mindlessness in front of a screen, blowing things up.

"Don't mention it."

It took a moment for Kaite to pull himself together and put the game away, but once he did, he turned to look at Vash suspiciously.

"Come to arrest me, again?"

"Nope, once was enough," Vash answered as he took a seat in a chair that had seen better days. "And look at you doing such a good job. We'll make a detective out of you yet."

"Bastard," Kaite said with a snarl.

"Brat."

"Wuss."

"Ankle-biter."

"Nice haircut, jerk." He winced. Jerk? Ouch, that was lame. That one hadn't been up to par and the look on Vash's face showed that he knew it. In fact, these days, his insults of Vash were getting weaker and weaker. The truth was, the scrawny teen had a hard time pretending he wasn't impressed with the lanky detective. The story went that after a lot of begging, Vash had let the kid come with him to the shooting range. Kaite had been fighting a case of hero-worship ever since.

"That's all you've got?" Vash asked.

Kaite seemed to decide that ignoring Vash was the biggest insult he could deal today. He turned his wide blue eyes to Wolfwood who had perched on a free corner of his desk. There was a creaking noise and he stood again hurriedly.

"S'up, detective Wolfwood? Heard you caused all kinds of shiz-nit to come down and see me today. I didn't know you cared."

"Hey, I wanted the best."

Kaite looked down at his keyboard suddenly, obviously flattered. Wolfwood exchanged a look with his partner. Vash's expression almost said, "Here we go again."

He teased Wolfwood about it whenever he was sure it wouldn't piss him off. Yes, Wolfwood was bad with people. Yes, he was intimidating and got angry easily. Sometimes he just rubbed people the wrong way. But, for some sick, sick reason, he was good with kids. Kaite was just another example of children clinging to Wolfwood like white on rice. This time it came with a kind of respect that was rare for the rebellious Kaite to give. Vash was any number of insulting nicknames. Wolfwood was always "Detective."

"So what can I do ya for?" Kaite asked, swiveling in his chair childishly. He looked impish lit up by the glow of his computer screens as he was.

"This," Wolfwood said and handed him a small sheet of paper.

"A hotel, eh?" Kaite said. His eyes skimmed the page quickly. "Oh, my bad. Two hotels? This for Picasso?"

"Yes. We've got a few victims connected to those hotels. Two of the victims went on vacation together and stayed at the Southern Inn and Lodge," Vash said. He passed over one of the pictures of the vacation to Kaite. "The man in the back appears in more than his fair share of the pictures from that vacation. There may be something there."

Wolfwood leaned forward and tapped the picture in Kaite's hands. "So we were hoping you could tell us who stayed at the hotel with them during those dates on the paper. And who worked there."

"And run a few searches on any names that come up. Like the, 'Past criminal record' kind of searches. And find out if there's any connection between these two hotels. " Vash added.

"And if the names of his victims," Wolfwood said and handed over another sheet of paper, this one with sixteen names, "pop up at either place."

Kaite whistled. "Damn. Not asking too much, are ya?"

Wolfwood managed to look apologetic. "Honestly, at this point, I'm counting on you to give me the kind of information that will justify my coming here to bother you in the first place. I'm hoping whatever you can tell me will be exactly what I was looking for all along."

Kaite made a messy stack out of the papers the detectives had given him next to a battered-looking tower. "One of your hunches, huh?"

"More or less," Wolfwood answered with a smile. "So, are you up to the challenge, or should I find another computer know-it-all?"

"Are you kiddin'? I'm down for this. I'm fuckin' stoked."

Wolfwood and Vash exchanged another look, this one completely confused. Sometimes, they really didn't know what Kaite was saying. "Well, that's good then," Vash said but he sounded like he wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing with.

"Do you need anything else?" Wolfwood asked.

"Nah, I'm straight." Kaite slipped the headset back over his ear and his fingers became a cartoon-like blur on the keyboard. The detectives watched him for a moment in expectation. But nothing happened for two minutes. Kaite typed, they stood there watching. Finally, the hacker pulled the earphone off again.

"Dudes," he said in the kind of voice all service personnel use when addressing the people who employ them--the ones who really don't understand anything. "Rome wasn't built in a day. I'll call you," he said miming the motion of dialing a phone, "when I find something. Oookaaay? Now get the fuck outta here."

Vash and Wolfwood took the hint. They headed out the door, but Vash couldn't resist the urge to flick the light on again as he walked out. "Do your best, kid," he said.

"You spiky-haired son of a--"

The door closed. The detectives started down the corridor and then took the steps up.

"That was cruel," Wolfwood said.

"Yeah," Vash agreed. "By the way, didn't the entire precinct here you tell chief Bennigan that this wasn't a hunch?"

"Did I really say that? Must have slipped my mind."

* * *

When she was afraid, she became a different person. Some people, they hide it. You can look at them and never guess that they were afraid for their lives. But Milly wore it on her face like a gash, like a bleeding wound. 

Yesterday, her phone went dead. Mysterious. The day before that, her mail didn't come. And each time something happened, her shoulders grew tenser. Her hair was no longer as neatly styled. She always looked pale.

All the times before, it had been for the joy of watching them squirm, of seeing how someone so perfect dealt with life torn asunder. If this were any other summer, he'd be doing this for Milly. This time, something was different. At first, it had confused him. But now he knew. He could taste the reason at the back of his throat like the heavy syrup of blood dripping down to swirl in his belly, warming him.

This was not for Milly.

He was waiting for someone else.

For Detective. Because Detective was hard to find. Because he was difficult to get near, difficult to follow. Because he was not listed in the phone books and directories scattered around his room. And because he was...

She had called him once before. When he had given her the dark for the beautiful moment, savoring the sounds of her screams through the sleeping evening. She had called him then and he had come like a knight in a story. He swept her away, took her someplace safe. And when they returned, he had carried her to the front steps in his arms and then stayed with her through the night.

How noble.

But she had not called him when the phone line died. Had not called when it was obvious someone had been inside her house. She called him for other reasons at her own leisure. For dinner. For a walk in a park. It was almost as if she knew that nothing would happen to her as long as he was nearby. She called him quite a lot, lately. But never to tell him the simple truth: someone was out there, watching her.

Because if she had, Detective would know.

He wondered why Milly stayed silent. She was not a fool. He knew the signs. He had known exactly when his Kelly became aware. Of him, of the game. Of the fact that she, quite simply, was prey. It was a look in her eyes, a tremble in her hands, the steady, paranoid craning of her neck behind her. Yes, Milly knew he was there.

So why...?

He did not know. Did not understand. He only knew that he would have to try something else.

Milly looked neat today, but the circles under her eyes matched her navy pumps. She stepped outside her front door. It was a cute door, decorated with a wreath of dried flowers. They smelled like a field of honeysuckle. He felt the moment so acutely, it might as well be preserved on film, replayed in slow motion like the assassination of a president on television.

She lifted the top of the mailbox, like every morning. Once her hand was inside, once she froze and bit back a cry, he imagined he could feel everything she could.

She drew her hand back and stared at it. The coating of thick, red, blood on her fingers shone in the morning sun. Even from where he was, he could see her hand start to shake and the tears start to slide down her face. Only then did she look down.

Routines are beautiful things. They blind people to changes. Dust gathers in the corners and you never sweep it because you never have before. You do not notice the spider on the ceiling because you never look up. When you do the same thing everyday, you see the world as a repeat, a broken-record clip of today and everyday leading up to it. Milly had never looked at the landing of her step when she got the mail before because she had never had a reason to do so.

Had she, she might have seen the blackening blood dripping from her mailbox first. Before she had daintily slid her hand into it, she might have seen the cascade of it onto the painted steps beneath it, forming a puddle that waterfalled over and down onto the sidewalk below.

She did not lower her hand. She held it out and away from her body, but she did not move from that spot. She was thinking and that was fighting with her body's urge to panic. There was something inside her mailbox.

Something bloody and cold from the shadows. Something that made sick, wet noises when her hand brushed against it.

She swallowed once, but he was certain it didn't give her the nourishment of courage. Turning her head away so she wouldn't have to see what she was doing, she lifted the top once more and slid her hand inside.

What she pulled from inside was a stringy mess of sinew and flesh with bone sticking out, white and terrible beneath all the blood.

She dropped it and it tumbled down the steps. When she ran into the house, she left bloody smears on the doorknob and the doorframe.

He stepped from the shadows, staring at the beautiful painting made by the stream of blood down her steps. "Run little rabbit, run, " he whispered. "Bring him to me."

To be continued...

So I like writing Kaite. I loved him to pieces in the show and the manga and randomly like to stick him in stories as a hacker. This time I decided to make him a foul-mouthed punk; half gangsta, half anime nerd. So he's not exactly how you remember him (and he's seven years older), but this is an AU. You're used to that by now.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Up next: ...?


	12. Answers

Warnings: Strong language. Not beta-read and not even spell checked since the virus on my computer has now eaten most of my typing programs and a large percentage of my fonts. You can thank said virus for any formatting issues, too.

The story so far:

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood is fighting the clock to capture Picasso, a killer who leaves his victims twisted bodies for the police to find. Picasso has killed 16 victims, always during the summer, and has left no clues that might lead to his arrest. But Wolfwood has a reputation for catching the uncatchable. With the help of his partner, Detective Vash Severem, Wolfwood is determined to bring Picasso down. But at the same time, he has to deal with ghosts from his own mysterious past turning up to haunt him.

During the investigation, two hotels have come under Wolfwood's radar. They might hold the answers to how the deadly serial killer chooses and stalks his victims. The department's pet hacker, Kaite, has been set on the trail...

* * *

Part XXIV: Answers

* * *

Kaite was a busy bee. The imagery, Vash decided, was fitting. After all, like a bee, he was a loud, obnoxious kid with a stinging personality. But a hard worker despite all that. 

They requested information from the "reformed" criminal on Thursday and were rewarded on the following Wednesday with a summons from the boy wonder. Once again they found themselves cocooned in the paranoid, hacker paradise that was Kaite's own, private office. Wolfwood couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if the equipment in the room had doubled. The blinking boxes loomed in the shadows of the room, more menacing than ever. The music of choice for the day blasted from the headsets snuggly fitted around the boy's ears.

"Snoop Dogg?" Wolfwood asked, rubbing at his forehead as if a headache threatened.

Kaite--this time wearing a t-shirt with bold lettering that said "Dragonball Z" above a spiky-haired blonde guy in orange--pushed the headsets off and grinned. "Yeah, detective. Tight, ain't it?"

Wolfwood shook his head, afraid to give vocal agreement. With Kaite, you never were exactly sure what you were talking about.

"A man with taste. But did you have to bring the loser with you?" Kaite asked, gesturing to Vash.

"Watch it, boyo, your voice is cracking. Puberty finally hit?" Vash examined his nails casually as he delivered the line so he missed the glare the hacker sent his way.

"Anyway," Kaite said, rolling his eyes. "Here's what ya asked for. And if this was just another one of your hints, detective, it was a damn good one, yo."

Wolfwood squinted down at the handful of printouts that Kaite handed him.

"He can't see those in the dark, munchkin," Vash said airily.

"Use the lamp over there, beanstalk," Kaite countered. Wolfwood sighed and resigned himself to a corner where a squat lamp perched atop a filing cabinet.

"Okay," he said. "What am I looking at here?"

"The answers to the FAQ, my friend. Names on one side, dates and relevant info on the other. Read 'em and praise my brilliance. Top of the list, see? Morgan and Beasley you know already," he said. "They stayed at the Southern Inn and Lodge. Then there's King and Nakamura. You know them too. They stayed at the Good Rest shortly before they got ixnayed. One on holiday, the other on business. But when I checked the other victims, that's when it got interestin'."

"Oh?" Wolfwood asked, dividing his attention between the paper in his hands and Kaite's voice which was in a playful, "I know something you don't know" tone.

"Oh, yeah. Of your sixteen victims to date, I can track nine of them to one of those two hotels within the last four years."

Wolfwood felt a tiny rush of energy through his body at those words. In the light from the lamp, one could see his shoulders lower in long overdue relief. "So many?" he whispered, his voice tinted with anticipation.

"Guests?" Vash asked. He had moved to stand beside Wolfwood and was looking down at the printout as well.

Kaite shook his scruffy head. "Not always guests. But caterers, temporary employees, stuff like that. And all of it long enough ago and so small that it never would have shown up on cop radar if no one was lookin' for it. One of them even just signed in as a visitor. Victim number seven, Mizz Sara Carter, only dropped into the Good Rest one day when the front desk gave her a call. Her purse had got straight jacked and the thief got caught trying to pay for a room with her credit card. Amateurs, I'm tellin' ya. But Number Seven was in and out in minutes just to get her purse back and get out again." Kaite tapped his head with a long finger twice and smiled. "I only found _that_ one 'cause the police were involved. Arresting Butterfingers who's still doing community service for being an insult to purse snatchers everywhere."

Wolfwood worried his bottom list as he read the organized list Kaite had given him. Looking at the evidence now, it was clear as day that Picasso was using the hotel as a way to find his victims. In fact, all evidence pointed to his using _two_ hotels. What seemed so obvious now had eluded the department for years. The only reason they hadn't noticed, of course, was because the case had been treated as a regular homicide for well over two years. The detectives in homicide had suspected friends, family, co-workers. The usual suspects. Boyfriends and best friends had been held over night and even longer, questioned over and over. Those tactics had never produced a lead. And so sixteen victims later, the simplest answer had surfaced after a single round of searches by a computer hacker extraordinaire.

"Kaite," Wolfwood said with a smile at the boy, "you can have any game you want for the next year."

"Sweet!" Kaite exclaimed. "Yo, seriously? No joke, detective?"

"No joke."

"Ah, hell yeah. And that's just after what I've told you so far. Wait 'til you hear the _rest_."

"There's more?" Vash asked. He looked optimistic in the way that Wolfwood suddenly felt. One might call the look on his face "cocky."

Kaite swiveled a flat panel computer monitor towards them and waved them closer.

"'Course there's more. I'm the shit. You might even get a list of suspects outta me," Kaite admitted as he pointed at the screen. "I'm very proud of this little list. Took me a long time. Lots of sneaky hacker tricks. Confidential hotel information, detective. Hope you appreciate it, yo."

The detectives leaned down close, Vash reading the information displayed on the screen.

"So," he began, "if this is right, only three people worked at this hotel during every stay or visit of one of the victims. One of them was an elderly gentleman who had a heart attack five weeks ago. So he's out."

"At least, he didn't kill Morgan," Kaite countered. "As for the other two. Well, one's a bellboy."

"The other?" Wolfwood asked.

"Front desk. Mailroom. Odd jobs." Kaite swiveled the screen back around towards him, the glow making is face devilish. His fingers moved at blinding speeds across the keyboard. "Here it is," he said almost to himself before spinning the screen back around with a flourish.

"This is him. Only picture I could find. Check it out, yo."

Both detectives bent double to get a close look. The picture was of a dinner party, obviously cut out from a newsletter or magazine as text still surrounded the edges of the image. Guests were seated in the elegant dining room while waiters and staff bustled about them, eager to please. Kaite had circled a figure and through a bit of technological wizardry, enlarged the picture in a secondary window.

Wolfwood felt his lips curl into a smile.

"Blondie," he said. In his mind, he was already enjoying the sweet sensation of telling the chief about Kaite's little find.

He didn't know whether Bennigan would be happy to have a solid development in the case, or upset because Wolfwood and one of his "damn hints" was responsible for bringing it about.

"Which hotel?" he asked.

"Which? Waddya mean? Hah, try _both_, baby." Kaite's expression was definitely devilish now. Wolfwood had to fight to keep from shaking his hand.

Instead, he amended, "Make that every video game and every piece of computer equipment you want. For the next two years."

"Hell yeah!" Kaite said and threw his fist into the air. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

* * *

A little while later, Wolfwood and Vash walked back towards their offices, a discernible bounce in their steps. 

"First thing we need is to get all of this to the chief. Kaite is already sending all his files, but we need to get this hammered out as soon as possible," Wolfwood said. The way his fingers twitched at his side, it was obvious that he wanted a celebratory smoke.

"After that, it's back on the phone. Or a meeting with all our guys if we can swing it. And then trying to get the cooperation of the departments near those hotels. I don't even know who's out that way. Any ideas?"

Vash shook his head. "Not a clue. I've never had to go out there before. It's funny when you think about it."

"What is?"

Vash shrugged. "Well, they've got two guys from out of town heading this case. We're completely lost without the locals around to guide us. We can do detective work, but we can't actually hit the streets very well, can we?"

Wolfwood laughed gruffly. "Sad but true. Transfers are a pain in the ass. It takes months to get your footing and even then you're still lost. Let's say after all this Picasso stuff is wrapped up, you and I go back out east? This coast doesn't suit me. Every diner is non-smoking. And there are too many damn typhoons."

A massive smile spread across Vash's face. This was the first time he had heard his partner discuss the Picasso case as if there would ever be an end to it. It gave him a dose of hope that simply wouldn't be suppressed. He could just about hug Kaite for giving him that, giving him the chance to envision an end to all of this. And seeing Wolfwood actually smile and mean it for the first time in ages was priceless.

"Hey, don't be too hard on it. I from around here, you know," Vash said, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"Sorry," Wolfwood said insincerely. "But you trained out east and started out as an east coast cop. I swear you were one year away from getting an accent before we transferred. Don't you miss it sometimes? The food was better for starters."

"Yeah, I do. Miss it. Sometimes."

The rounded a corner and Wolfwood gave him a punch on the shoulder. "So, are you in or not? Back out east with the surf, the sun, the pretty girls and the palm trees?"

Vash laughed. "Sure, Wolfwood. We've only got--what, four, five? -- cases left?"

"Four."

"See? So if we don't snag any more, we're only looking at a few more months tops. Maybe until winter? I bet we can apply for a transfer now and have it processed by January. We could be back out east in no time."

"Not before a vacation," Wolfwood added quickly. "We deserve one."

"Yeah, we do. I've got a great idea," Vash began, but the ringing of a cell phone interrupted him.

He patted his pockets and so did his partner. "Not mine," he said.

Finally, Wolfwood retrieved the phone from the holster on his belt--a recent addition to his wardrobe. "Wolfwood," he said automatically.

He stopped walking. Vash stopped a little ways ahead of him and then turned back. He watched as the color drained from Wolfwood's face.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Go next door or somewhere safe nearby and wait for me." Wolfwood sounded as if it took all of his strength to keep his voice calm.

After a minute of giving stern but comforting instructions into the phone, he closed it and looked at his partner, the joking tone and expression from before completely gone.

"Get me a couple of units and an ambulance," he said, already rushing the last of the way to his office.

"What happened?" Vash demanded, following behind him.

Wolfwood turned and his eyes were so full of pain that Vash pulled up short. "Milly," was all he said.

* * *

He had stayed until the last of them faded away, sirens silent on the retreat. Perhaps hours had gone by, or perhaps only minutes. Who could say? And when the lovely, well-cared for black vehicle--the one that had arrived first and sent a thrill up his spine--had pulled smoothly into traffic, he had, too. 

He had gotten very good at this over the years. In the rush before lunch, who would notice him? The roads were full of cars that looked just like this. He was just another driver, just another face in the crowd.

And when his prey arrived at the station--the façade of which he recognized from the news broadcast--he had watched closely.

And after the beautiful car and the beautiful man were safe in the parking garage, he had sat there for a long time, thinking about Detective, something he found himself doing more and more of late.

Then something had quietly urged him to go home and so he had.

His car returned and his day a success, he felt compelled to enjoy it. Stepping outside, he took a lungful of air and then went where his long legs would take him.

The heat of the summer morning was normal today, not so oppressive. Sunlight splashed across his back and sent his shadow in a long stretch before him. The milder day was a relief for the city people who were at their wit's end with a summer of record-breaking heat. The normality of the day coaxed them from their air conditioned homes, encouraged them to walk their dogs in the green and blooming parks, and soothed them to open a window and use a fan instead.

He watched it all, missing nothing, even smiling now and then. If his life had been a movie--as he sometimes saw it, larger than life and projected like some classic musical with Gene Kelly--he might have whistled as he walked.

Far away from him now, a girl would be sobbing to the police about the gift he had left for her. For the rest of her life--maybe not so long--she would wake at night with images of it crowding her thoughts, bloodied and twisted.

A bird cawed as it soared overhead and he smiled. But even perfect days must come to an end and so his feet soon took him back home.

He turned a corner and mounted the steps leading to the front door of the building.

The dark of inside was a shock to his eyes. They had grown accustomed to the yellow light of the summer sun. He walked to the military rows of mailboxes, deftly entered his combination, and retrieved a single piece of mail.

It took all his will to walk instead of run. With the air of someone following a routine, he calmly took the stairs though every atom of his body was straining towards the paper in his fingers.

Finally inside, leaning heavily against the bolted door, he raised it to his face, pressed it to his flushed skin and inhaled. The scent was strange, sweaty, as if it had been hidden beneath layers of clothing. He imagined the carrier of this prize sweating with the terror of it being discovered, certain that it glowed red and obvious for everyone to see. The smell was intoxicating.

With trembling fingers he struggled to open the battered envelope. He unfolded the pages contained within and read the first line.

_Dear Picasso, _it said.

_I admire your work._

To be continued...

Okay, please forgive the length of this one. And the fact that nothing much happened here. And for the very long time it took to get posted. It sucks, I know, but there are good explanations for everything. Ask me one day over tea and I'll tell you all about it.

Up next? The hunt for Picasso begins.


	13. The Interview

Warnings: Strong language, disturbing content. Not beta-read and boyyyyy does it show.

* * *

Part XXV: The Interview

* * *

Her hands shook as she sipped the too-strong coffee. It was a miracle that the hot liquid didn't splash on her hands and burn her. She stared straight ahead and didn't blink.

Milly looked the part of the victim. Her face was a mess of blotchy red streaks and a red nose. Her eyes were puffy, her lip bitten through by nervous teeth.

Kicking himself, Wolfwood wondered how he had missed...everything that mattered. Had he been blind before today when a single phone call had taken their case to a whole new level of odd? How, how had me missed the signs?

And that was it, wasn't it? He _hadn't _missed them. Not exactly. He had just been so busy, so happy with being near her that he had let all the signs hide as something innocent. He had seen her house, seen her habits. He knew that she, like Kelly Morgan and Angela Beasley before her, thrived on routine. Young, pretty, almost perfect--Milly was everything Picasso could want. And he, Wolfwood, a detective famous for being a difficult man to fool, had let it all get past him.

But the question that occupied his mind now was one he couldn't easily answer easily: had Picasso started stalking Milly before or after Wolfwood's grand re-introduction to the world? He wondered if that damn press conference was to blame for the killer's interest in the girl.

Since his involvement in the case, he had diligently kept himself hidden, difficult to find. And with good reason. But in one day, with one stupid press conference, all his hard work had been ruined. Worse, he had put himself and the people around him in danger. Was Milly being stalked because of her friendship with him, or in spite of it? And was all of this just some kind of trap? The idea of it, along with several other factors, made him irritable and uncomfortable. He looked ahead of him at his partner and his—what _was_ she to him, exactly?—watching but incapable of doing anything to help.

The little room behind the room where the interview was taking place was kept in dim light and filled up with equipment Wolfwood only vaguely knew how to use. It came standard with a technical wizard who was the only person on the force capable of matching Kaite in understanding of things that blinked and flashed. He sat in one of the rooms comfortable rolling chairs, a heavy-looking headset clamped over his ears and his fingers moving with practiced ease over the buttons and slides.

Behind him, Wolfwood and chief Bennigan loomed, silent save for a few scattered comments. Bennigan stood with his arms crossed, a sour look on his face. Before the three men—who would be the only witnesses to an interview of such importance—was a large pane of glass. From the other side, it looked convincingly like a mirror. Anyone who had ever seen any cop show knew what the glass was for. Wolfwood stared through it, at the girl who the word 'broken' best described. And at his partner with his eerily beautiful eyes doing all the things necessary to keep her from falling apart.

The pair sat across from each other at the table in a room that was flooded with light today. It was usually as dim and menacing as necessary to convince the reticent to talk quickly and succinctly. But today, coffee came whenever it ran out. Vash talked about ordering lunch. It would almost be a pleasant scene if not for the reason for the interview.

Milly had got out of bed that morning and gone about her routine as usual. She had opened the front door, opened her mailbox, and instead of mail, the dead, mutilated body of a dove had been crammed inside. It was a broken, bonelessly limp, bloody thing. Arriving at her house that morning after her frantic call, Wolfwood had swallowed in disgust at it. Vash had looked a little ill.

But now he was back in his element, one of the many things that made him a damn good cop. Milly relaxed a little around him and seemed less fragile thanks to his careful handling of the interview.

Sometimes she looked up at the glass nervously. Perhaps she was trying to stare through it and find his eyes. It had taken awhile for her to stop crying.

It had taken longer for Wolfwood to realize that even though it had been him Milly called, he was not the one who needed to be in there talking to her at the moment. He was far, far too angry to be near her right now.

Pleasant Vash told her that with her help, they were closer to locating Picasso than ever before. All Wolfwood wanted to tell her was that he would hunt the bastard down and smash his head into a wall until no doctor in the world could fix it.

_I should be in there_, he thought. I should be talking to her, holding her hand, comforting her.

Instead, his bitter revelations was that he was on the wrong side of the glass beside chief Bennigan, a man who he was willing to do any number of embarrassing stunts to get away from. Worse, the station's air conditioner was cranked up so high he shivered and tugged his suit jacket tighter around him.

Cold, angry, and contemplating violence, what good was he to Milly?

So he stood behind the glass and looked in on the scene that he couldn't be a part of. Besides, Vash really was a miracle worker. He sounded like what Wolfwood imagined a wise, concerned older brother might sound as he offered advice to a younger sister.

Inside the little room, her panicked air from before subsiding, Milly took a deep breath, ready at last.

"It was always little things," she said and then gave a quiet sniff before dabbing at her nose with the tissue in her hand. "One day I kept getting hang up calls. Only, before they hung up, I could hear them. Breathing into the phone. It was almost like they were waiting for me to say something. Maybe they wanted to hear that I was scared. Maybe…I don't know."

Vash nodded, but said nothing. He somehow knew exactly when to speak and when to wait, how to keep someone talking. He had apparently figured Milly out in the first few minutes of the interview and his assessment was proven right when Milly began again.

"A day or so after that, my mail didn't come. One day, all my lights went out. I thought it was a power outage but...nobody else on my street had the same problem. I hoped it was a blown fuse. I kind of freaked out," she said and gave a strangled laugh she didn't feel. "I was so scared, I thought someone was in the house with me. But the lights came back on a little while later, like someone threw a switch and just...fixed them."

She paused to blow her nose quietly and take a sip of coffee. Behind the glass where she couldn't see him, even if she knew he was there, Wolfwood winced at her words. Listening to her story was like reading every case file from every one of Picasso's victims. Before he finally hunted them down or lured them out for the slaughter, he filled their lives with little annoyances that slowly worsened. If Milly hadn't called him today, perhaps one day soon, just like Kelly, her car would have suddenly stopped working. Somewhere remote and dark, where Picasso would have followed her, waited for her.

"How long have these things been going on?" Vash asked gently.

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "I don't know. A month? Two months? I only noticed...recently. It got worse. It just got worse. That's all."

"Worse how?"

"Oh, you know," she said weakly. "From one day to the next it got...worse. It went from little things to...big things. Like the lights. And t-the thing in my mailbox. One day I found things in my house moved. I know where they used to be, and they were switched."

Wolfwood rubbed his temple. "Why didn't she call me?" he growled, glad that the glass kept both him and his voice hidden. "Why the hell didn't she call—"

And then his eyes widened. Because she _had _called him. Every time his phone rang at odd hours, every time he had gone to see her, she had looked a little spooked, a little scared to be alone. So, yes, she had called out for help, but she had never told him what was happening to her. And he, apparently, wasn't smart enough to pick it up on his own. _Some detective_, he cursed himself.

"This is getting messy," Bennigan said. It was just the kind of thing for the man to say when he had nothing else of value to contribute. "Picasso stalking your girlfriend? You, the lead detective on the case? Has he gone even nuttier or what? It just doesn't fit. He's fucking with us like this is all some big game."

Wolfwood clamped down on his teeth to keep from saying his thoughts on exactly what Picasso was doing. The killer's behavior was perfectly in-line with his behavior the previous three years. It fit all too well, but Bennigan couldn't know that without putting Frank Marlin and the other previous detectives on the case in danger. In Wolfwood's wallet was a wrinkled picture of a Frank's daughter. A little girl who had been strung up by her wrists all for Picasso's pleasure. And to intimidate Frank into doing exactly what he had done: give up the case and never tell what had been done to him and his family. Except, he had told Wolfwood. The Police chief couldn't know it, but Picasso was doing business as always, keeping his patterns, following his own rules.

Only Milly was the exception to the rule. They had kept Picasso from killing for the first time and it was a fluke. Of the five Picasso planned to kill this summer, only Kelly Morgan, victim number sixteen, was dead. _Hell_, Wolfwood thought, _that had to count for something_.

He'd let the other's rejoice in the small victory. He alone would hoard his suspicions like a treasure. And when Picasso finally came for him, he would try his best to be ready.

He studied Milly's face and wondered if he was looking at someone who was meant to be victim seventeen or not. And if she wasn't meant to have been seventeen--if Picasso was at this moment, waiting outside the house or office or doctor of another girl, watching her as she went innocently through the business of living...

If Milly wasn't that girl...

then who was?

She spoke for over an hour with Vash, revealing all the so-called "little things" she had endured for at least two months and possibly longer.

Finally, Vash glanced quickly through the folder resting by his right hand. He spoke as he looked at it and only lifted his eyes to Milly as he finished. "This may seem like a strange question, but bear with me. Are you familiar with a hotel called the Southern Inn and Lodge?"

Milly tilted her head to the side and her brow wrinkled. After a moment she asked, "On the coast?"

"Yes," Vash said, still careful, but Wolfwood could tell that his shoulders tensed just a bit in anticipation.

"Yes, I went there at the end of April," she said simply.

There was a pause when Vash only stared at her. His eyes shifted to the mirror, almost as if he wished it away. Wolfwood understood. Vash wanted to talk to him. He had had the same problem countless times. Whenever there was a breakthrough or a lead or even a silly idea that might pan out, Wolfwood called Vash first. As far as he knew, the same went for Vash.

"For vacation?" his partner asked after a moment. His eyes were solely focused on Milly now.

"Oh, no," she corrected. "For work. I was only there about a day. They had a fire in their kitchen and my firm provides insurance for the entire chain. Their health insurance is also carried through our firm."

"So as a claims investigator you went to assess the damage to the kitchen?"

"That's right. The damage from the fire was minimal. The sprinklers actually did much worse. That happens a lot, if you can believe that. But everything was settled easily since it was an accident."

"May I ask what caused the fire?"

"It was electrical. The wiring connected to the ventilation system and the air conditioner had been chewed through by a rat or a mouse. It was pretty old wiring. That hotel is a historical building, isn't it? So when they turned on the vents and left them running because they had several wedding banquets booked that day, well, the wall above the stove caught fire. It scared the chef so badly that he burned himself and dropped a skillet on a waiter's foot. The waiter stumbled into the assistant chef who cut his hand on a knife. Then the whole place filled with smoke and the alarms and sprinklers went off. The _rest_ of the injuries were from people slipping on puddles of water. From the sprinklers, of course. One gentleman tripped trying to get out the door."

Vash stared at her in silence for several long, disbelieving moments. Seeing his face, she laughed. It was small, but genuine. She cleared her throat in a display of professional cool. "I know what you're thinking," she said. "It sounds like something from a cartoon, doesn't it?"

"Um...yes."

"It _looked_ like something from a cartoon."

Vash chuckled and shook his head before leading back to the subject at hand. "When you were at the hotel, did you notice anything unusual?"

Her eyes went wide and the corners of her mouth pulled down. She worried her lip again, thinking. "Anything unusual? No, no. I can't think of anything right now. It was just a routine claims investigation. Well, except for the fact that it was like a cartoon." She shrugged apologetically. "But…can I ask what the hotel has to do with anything?"

Vash, for a second so brief that only Wolfwood caught it, wore a pained expression. He liked Milly. He didn't want to have to tell her that all the evidence indicated that Picasso had seen her that day, liked what he saw, and watched her ever since.

He sighed and began his explanation.

* * *

Milly wanted to go back to her home, but it simply couldn't be allowed. It would throw her life into confusion, but having Milly under police protection was truly the only solution to the problem. The interview over, all the arrangements had to be made to keep her protected. From today on, Milly would never be left alone.

Now Wolfwood and Milly stood in chief Bennigan's office. The chief had kindly—Wolfwood wanted to smirk at the thought—stepped out of the room to give them a moment to talk.

He covered the details that he knew and told her who to ask when he didn't. She stared at her hands while he spoke to her and looked dejected.

He wanted to apologize to her for not noticing the danger she was in, for being a blind fool, for not doing what was necessary to protect her. What he said instead was, "How are you?"

"Better. Thank you."

She'd probably never know how painful it was hearing that. "I'm sorry things are going to be so inconvenient for you for awhile. I'd tell you that you didn't have to do it, except for the fact that you do."

"I know," she said with marked resignation. "I can't go back home, can I?"

"Not for a few days, at least. They're going to be doing as thorough a search as they can in the meantime." At the worried expression on her face, he tried his best to reassure her. "Don't worry. The boys we've got going through your place have promised to be careful. And if they break anything, we'll pay you for it. They're good guys, they all just have two left feet. You should see them on bowling night. It's not pretty.

She tossed him a bruised laugh, probably out of gratitude for his trying to behave as if her world wouldn't always be a little bit darker. Perhaps that sad sound was the best he was ever going to get from now on. Perhaps it was something to be thankful for.

"I guess I knew, somehow or another," she said suddenly. "That he was out there. I didn't want to involve anyone. But I was scared. I kept hoping that I was wrong. And then this morning…"

"Hey, it's alright now."

She shook her head but he doubted she believed him. She looked as if there was still more she wanted to say. From his point of view, there were still questions he wanted to ask her, but looking at her face, he decided to let her go. She could explain later. She'd have to.

Flanked on both sides by officers, Milly was escorted from the police station. He wanted to be the one to care for her, but his duties and involvement with the case made that entirely impossible. He'd check in on her, as would Vash, but for now all he could do for her was see this through to the end.

* * *

Vash was waiting for him in his office when he returned. His gaze was focused on the wall, a careful arrangement of photos and clippings covering Picasso's case over the past four years. They were there primarily for Wolfwood's benefit. Sometimes when he stared at it long enough, he imagined that he could see patterns of overlap and continuity. Like looking at a Magic Eye book, the point of it all could only be revealed with patience and a little bit of staring at your own nose. Only, unlike those puzzles where the dancing couple or the little boat only became clear by crossing your eyes and waiting, understanding Picasso's world required wadding up your mind, mangling it until it screamed, and bathing it in pain until it resembled the mind of a madman. And because he couldn't do that, Wolfwood wondered if he would ever be able to catch up with Picasso.

He couldn't imagine anyone else inclined to stare at pictures like this everyday. Vash usually avoided looking at the wall as much as possible. It upset him. To catch him at studying it made the day a strange one all around, Wolfwood decided. First Milly and then Vash...

"She's a nice girl," Vash said without turning away from the wall. "It's not fair that anything like this should happen to nice people like her."

Wolfwood's lips quirked, not quite a smile, but the expression he reserved for acknowledging Vash's idealistic concept of the world. "Yeah, she is. I wanted you two to meet under better circumstances."

Vash finally turned away slowly and walked his easy stride to come to stand before him. His expression was oddly guarded and his voice cold. "Don't worry about it. Thanks to her, we can get our warrant, get this case taken care of, and then maybe one day all of us will sit down and have a nice dinner together."

"All of us? Oh, I forgot, you and the PR lady. I'm sure Officer Strife will be very flattered by your attention once you introduce yourself to her."

"I'll get to it eventually," Vash said without humor and then crossed to close the door before returning. Wolfwood studied his body language and noted that it was almost expectant.

That and the silent, contemplative air around him and the blankness of his face were the first clues. The closed door was next on the list. Wolfwood could already see the route this conversation was going to take. Vash had something on his chest and he wasn't going to leave until he got it off. _All right_, Wolfwood thought, _let's get this over with_. He waved to his desk and the chair before it. "Park it," he said. Vash trailed after him to the desk and sat down, the same unreadable look on his face.

Even after Wolfwood was seated, he didn't speak. He only stared at him as if he were memorizing his features or trying to understand his mind from the outside in.

"I know what you're thinking," Wolfwood said after a long moment. "But I don't have any answers. Whatever Picasso is up to, all we can do is keep up our investigation and hope we catch him before he finishes it."

Vash drummed his fingers against his thigh. "You know, when you want to put up a fight about something, it's impossible to go around you." Wolfwood blinked at the _non sequitur_. "What?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Come on, it's true. You won't even give in about little things like where we get takeout from. You yell and argue until we call where you want to eat. Isn't that funny?"

"Um...I guess maybe it _would_ be if I could figure out what you're getting at."

Vash sighed, the first sign of emotion he had shown since this odd conversation began. "What I mean is...the press conference. You didn't want to do it, right?"

"You know I didn't."

"But...you didn't much of a fight, did you?"

Wolfwood felt his breath hitch. "I did everything I could to—"

"Did you?" Vash interrupted. His voice was sharp and higher than usual. Now it was obvious that no matter how angry Wolfwood thought he was, Vash was well beyond that and perhaps had been for quite awhile. "Okay, partner," he said with an extravagant gesture, "just spit it out. You've got something to say, so just _say_ it."

Vash leaned forward like a lion ready to pounce. "Okay. Are you up to your old tricks again? Did you allow that press conference so that _this_ would happen?"

Wolfwood forced his teeth to stop grinding together to ask in a hissed whisper, "Are you accusing me of...making Milly _bait_?"

Vash surged up from his seat so quickly it rattled back a foot. He leaned down menacingly over his partner, knuckles white against the clean surface of the desk. "No," he said. "I'm accusing you of making _yourself_ bait, Wolfwood. You and I both know what happened to the other detectives on the case. It's why you agreed with me to keep both of our names out of the papers on a case that was already high profile. But when the opportunity to get his attention shows up, you hardly even protest. Less than two weeks later, your _girlfriend_ gets a dead dove in her mailbox. What do you expect me to believe, knowing how you work?"

Now Wolfwood stood, his dark blue eyes were narrowed half in disbelief and half in rage. "Are you even listening to yourself? You heard Milly the same as me. Hell, you interviewed her! Picasso has been playing his little game with her long before we started dat...whatever. You know it and I know it. Don't hit me with this psychobabble. That's what the doc is for."

Vash threw up his arms. "I wouldn't have to if...we wouldn't even be _having _this conversation if you would tell me what you're up to." He looked down as if the floor had all the answers. "I've got to tell you, I'm a little tired of always trying to keep one step ahead of you because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't."

And that last sentence, spoken in a crushed voice, took all Wolfwood's fury, squeezed it into a tiny ball, and tossed it away.

He fell back into his seat. His lanky body was so sprawled out that it seemed as if he was missing the bones to stand ever again. After a moment, he tilted his head back to stare up at the other man with weary eyes. "Dammit, Vash," he sighed. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. What do you want from me here? What do you wanna hear? What can I say that will…" he trailed off, not sure of what he had been about to ask.

Now it was Vash's turn to look deflated. He flopped down into the seat heavily. "Owww."

"My seat's padded. That one's not."

"I knew that," he said and glared at Wolfwood.

"Then why'd you flop into it like some damn princess?"

"Because it was...dramatic?"

"Yeah, but was it worth the pain?"

Vash forced a laugh. "Not really. You probably weren't even looking to appreciate it."

"Oh, no, I saw. It was plenty dramatic. Kudos to you."

"Kudos? Well then, I guess it was worth it."

With nothing left to say, they were silent. They both found dozens of things around the room to stare at in the meantime. The clock, the files stacked neatly on Wolfwood's desk, the windows with the evening light pushing through them. Occasionally they would look back at one another, but at those times their eyes would slide away quickly like a skate over ice. It was Vash who broke the silence.

"It's okay," he said and looked at Wolfwood with the intensity of a child seeing snow for the first time. "If you lie to me about it, I mean. Tell me whatever you want and let's just get back to work."

Wolfwood's bark of laughter was a surprise even to him. "Why? 'Cause you'll know if I am anyway?"

"Well, yeah," Vash agreed.

"So then you'll know if I'm telling the truth, too, right?"

"I think so."

Wolfwood settled his elbows on the desk and brought his hands up to rest his chin on. "Okay then, try this: it was not my intention to lure Picasso out into the open by using myself, or Milly, as bait. I'm just trying to catch the bastard, okay? Without putting anyone I care about in danger. I want this damn case over with. I want to apply for a transfer and go back out east with you. I miss our old beat." He waited a heartbeat and then asked, "Okay, you tell me: true or false?"

Vash's eyes, brighter than Milly's but not as pale, bored into him, drills searching for oil, for water. Simply for the truth. He smiled. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

It was the second time today. Vash: one giant walking _non sequitur_. Wolfwood knew, whatever Vash had decided, he would have to wait to hear it. If Vash ever opened up and told him, that is. He was pretty good at secrets.

"Starving," he answered, giving up.

"Takeout?"

Wolfwood nodded and made to reach for the phone. He stopped when he was halfway there. "Um…what are you hungry for?" he asked almost sheepishly.

"Italian," Vash said easily. "You?"

Wolfwood coughed into his hand. "Italian? Um...sounds...great."

So they ate Italian and everything was the same as usual. Almost, anyway.

* * *

The next day found his office eerily quiet. With Vash running around like the proverbial headless chicken, Wolfwood found himself not exactly at loose ends, but feeling like it. His partner had taken the full responsibility of smoothing over what could turn into a delicate situation. The police stations whose cooperation they would need to track down Blondie would probably resent having their men and resources commandeered--especially on such short notice. And whether Vash's charm or Wolfwood's pull with the commissioner would make any difference or not was beyond him. But the truth was that it they didn't move now, they might loose the first break they'd been allowed since they first took the case almost a year and a half ago. Vash occasionally popped in to say "Hi" or to drop of some files, but mainly he was as out-of-pocket as could be.

Sitting at his desk, Wolfwood carefully read and re-read every line of the document before him. Warrants and going about obtaining them--it had to be his least favorite part of police work. Like every one of the forms he had filled out before, this one was a series of tiny boxes and tinier print cramped together like a tax form. He filled in a few more boxes, rubbed at his face, filled in a few more, and tried to stay focused. God he wished Vash was here to help with these.

The best thing about the forms, he figured, was that they kept his mind off the ugly things he could be thinking about instead. Like the pain Milly was going through and his inability to go see her because his job wouldn't do itself. Or there was the heavy press of time he could be thinking about. It suffocated him with reminders that June was two days away from over and that, despite one dead bird in a mailbox, Picasso had been remarkably silent. His pattern would be broken for the first time in four years if the month ended without a tangled body left for the police to puzzle over.

The phone rang. It shattered the silence as effectively as a sledgehammer to glass. He bypassed his coffee cup and reached for the receiver.

"This is Nicholas Wolfwood," he said with machine-like automation. When no one answered he added, "Hello? Wolfwood here." But there was nothing to hear, no one to answer.

Frowning at the receiver, he settled it back on the cradle and returned to his warrant.

Thanks to Kaite's information and Milly's interview, they were not only warm, but two hairs shy of hot.

Kaite's research made for interesting reading. According to all the records, Blondie's name was Ray Hawthorn. He was 27 years old. He had an apartment, a car with an up-to-date license. He voted and paid taxes and did all the things that a citizen was supposed to if they were alive and kicking. Wolfwood would have been pleased as punch to leave him to his average, law-abiding life, too, if it hadn't been for the fact that all the records Kaite could find seemed to indicate that Hawthorn had only been born five years ago. Five-year-olds didn't usually hold jobs at resort hotels.

All that was left to believe was that Hawthorn was a carefully crafted, perfectly false, identity. Someone had stacked together all the little pieces that make a person real in the eyes of the law--social security number, credit cards, steady employment--like putting together a gingerbread man at Christmas. He was as real as the boogieman. As real as every single snowball in hell.

Wolfwood appreciated the kind of skill it took to assemble an identity so solid it held up for five years without detection. Were not for Kaite they would have overlooked Blondie after one peek at his pristine record. Thanks to Lisa Morgan's photos, a hunch on his part, and a lot of elbow grease from Kaite, they now had a prefab personality attached to a hotel where nine out of sixteen murdered girls had stayed or visited or worked before their deaths. It was a nice little puzzle and one he—

The phone snapped him out of his work and his thoughts. The ring was violently loud, caustic, troubling. He spared it a glare before reaching again for the receiver. "Wolfwood," he said sharply, letting irritation creep into his voice. When no sound, no whisper, no hint of life at all greeted him, the silence was louder than the eerie stillness in the room surrounding him.

Quite suddenly he knew and understood. He knew quite painfully who the caller was. The question of what exactly he wanted was one Wolfwood couldn't answer. Despite his promises to be ready when it was his turn to suffer what Frank Marlin had suffered through, he wasn't ready.

"I know who you are," he said. In the space between when he said it and when the gentle puff of breath came in answer to his bravado, he had time to regret. Playing games with a man capable of forcing a girl's heart to explode was not the best way to stay alive. Wolfwood swallowed, feeling his throat close up. The sounds of the clock clicking on his wall and the blinds rattling with the chilled air coming from the vents were suddenly acute and loud.

He knew he should hang up in hopes of getting a trace on him when he called again. Because he _would_ call back. He had proven that. He would keep calling until he got what he wanted, which seemed to be to force Wolfwood into acknowledging him, talking to him. _I should hang up_, he thought. _I should..._

But some twisted version of hubris stayed his hand.

When the voice on the other end deemed to speak, it was in a melodious tenor. Hearing it, Wolfwood was all at once certain that it was the kind of voice that hid secrets and told lies and ripped the coating off your bones just to see inside you, leaving you naked and exposed and so, so very afraid. It was a gentle, acid voice. "No," it said and so much was contained in that single word, like a small cup that somehow held the oceans. He felt like he was drowning in that voice. "No, you don't know me. But. I. Know. You."

Wolfwood's mind ran the maze of ideas and thoughts like a well-trained rat. He had already ruined his chance to hang up and get a trace on the next call. But if he could somehow keep him on the phone, then signal someone, they could track it. If he could...

God he wished Vash was here.

"What do you want?" Wolfwood said. It was weak and cliché and nothing he wanted to say, but if it could keep him on the line and give himself time to think, it was worth it. There was a significant pause, the sound of breathing.

"Ah, that's not like you at all," the acid voice answered enigmatically.

Wolfwood stalled, asking, "Then what's more my style?"

"Don't you understand?" he hissed. "I know you. I see you. I see everything there is to see. Detective," he added in what was almost a sigh, "do you see _me?_"

The _click_ that signaled the end of the call thundered in Wolfwood's ear.

Wolfwood sat with the phone in his hand for minutes that he didn't bother to count. The second hand ticked, ticked away on the wall and he imagined it was a countdown. To what, he didn't want to consider.

_I know you. I see you. _

He had said it with such assurance. Like a man with reasons to believe what he said. But _what_, exactly, did he know? And, more importantly, _how_ did he know what he knew?

When he finally put the receiver down, Wolfwood did nothing after. He sat there until the imperfect silence crowded him, suffocating and enduring.

To Be Continued...

Okay, so the thing with the chefs did not fit with the tone of the story at all. BUT, the way I figure it, Milly is still Milly whether she's being stalked or not. I could imagine her finding the entire kitchen thing amusing even under duress. As for Wolfwood's surprise phone call, how was that for an introduction? Lemme know! And thank to those readers who have reviewed.

Up Next? You can destroy a man without ever touching him. All you need do is take the things he loves, crush them to dust, and burn them to ashes...


	14. Almost Perfect

Author's Note: As an early Christmas Present and an apology for the erratic updates, I'm uploading two full-length chapters! Ta-daa! After you read this one, there's, like, totally another chapter just waiting to be read! Merry Christmas to all and to all a creepy slash detective Au!

Warnings: Strong language, disturbing content. Not beta-read as always (and getting worse).

* * *

Part XXVI: Nearly Perfect

* * *

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood lived in a two-story house with two neatly-trimmed bushes out front. He woke every morning—except for weekends and holidays— dressed in stylish black, and left the house before the traffic got congested. 

He arrived at the police station within the same five-minute window everyday, waved at the parking attendant, and then guided his excessively loved car into the underground parking area.

And from then on what he did and how he did it was a mystery. Did he enter the station via the elevator or the stairs? Where was his office? What did he do once he arrived? What did he eat? Sometimes deliveries of pizza and Chinese arrived. Would Detective share these greasy meals with his wiry blonde partner?

It infuriated him, the not knowing. It had never been difficult before.

But Detective was not prone to making mistakes that would let anyone close. He always locked the doors; he always closed the blinds on his smallish windows. He would not answer the phone to unknown callers.

At night, after he returned home, he parked his car in his meticulous garage with the expensive opener like a proud lioness protecting her cub. The house itself was locked up tight with paranoid security. And there—secure in his own world—he carried on the business of being who he was where no one could see or interrupt or participate. No one was allowed into his life. He was...

That was it, wasn't it? He didn't have the words. But his mind gave him ideas and these helped him through the frustration of not knowing. It was easy to imagine him sitting in a rigid-backed chair, reading some bestseller or watching a game on television. Perhaps inside that scrubbed and tended grey house, Detective threw together a simple meal, washed the dishes and went to bed.

Or perhaps he sat up, staring at the clock, regretting a life that was already what it was and a past that would never let him live free of its weight.

Maybe.

Who knew what really went on? Only Detective, and he would not tell. He caged himself up in that house, unshakable.

But sometimes, sometimes, he went out. But when he did, it was always too late to follow. The dark would not even conceal him if he were to make the effort to try. The streets empty like a desert and lit up by streetlights, there was no way to stay hidden. Sometimes, surely, he must be going to see Milly. But sometimes, Detective had to go somewhere else. He wanted to know where that place was very much. He wanted to know what Detective did there. Or what was done to Detective there.

And all of it—the unanswered questions and mounting confusing—it made him want to scream, because Detective was so close to being like the others. So close to perfect.

But at his core, he was broken, flawed, and limping through life on crutches. That made him a liar. That made him worthy of death. Just like the others who were never quite right. They all went through the motions, did everything so prettily and skillfully, but then when things went wrong, they fell apart. It was satisfying at first, watching them struggle through the brambles he threw before them. So many of them refused to let it bother them. Initially. Kelly and Milly both had fought it and it had been precious watching them struggle on as if life could never be changed if they just willed it so. Yet, the pain of it all, the unfairness or it, finally broke them. And even that was beautiful to see, made him feel like a god, at first.

But then, later on, after the high of power like that wore off, he realized that all he had left was a broken toy. And he would need a new one to fill the void they left once he took them in his hands and made them into something…else. Something that showed what they really, truly were on the inside:

Mistakes.

So he broke them so they could never lie to anyone else. Seeing them, no one could doubt what they were.

And here was Detective, the ultimate example. He didn't need to test him at all to see where the act ended and the truth began. He knew where the contradictions rested with this one. He _knew_ already, could practically _smell_ the taint of imperfection that lingered around him though he did such a good job at hiding it from everyone else. So he could rid the world of him at any minute. _I could kill him_, he thought in clinical clarity. Yes, he could kill him and wipe out his lies and falsehoods as easily as sweeping away a cobweb.

So, why, why didn't he? Why didn't he want to?

Instead, he found himself watching, planning, brooding. And everything was wrong. His routine was all but destroyed, his thoughts were convoluted, his dreams more disturbing than usual. Because Detective _didn't _react. He endured. Like a weed. Like a pest. Like a clever spider that clung to its web through rain and wind. Nothing seemed to shake the man. Not in any real way and certainly not in any way that he could savor.

He had left him presents for the past few days. Always doves with their necks snapped or heads missing. With the man's life as airtight as it was, these small, petty acts were all he could do. So he snuck and schemed and followed and taunted. He did what he could to force the man to drop the act and be what he was. But it didn't work. Instead, he found himself marveling at the incorruptibility of the life Detective had created for himself. It was…poetry. And just maybe all of this was the way it was because Detective had figured out his game long ago. Was Detective aware of what ruined the game for him, of what made him kill? Perhaps the two of them both harbored the thought that the other was an open book. Unbelievably, that only served to make it more interesting.

But no one was invincible. Not even the _nearly_ perfect, brilliant police detective. Everyone had a weakness and he knew all of them.

One of them had been his Milly. How he fawned over her and doted on her and _looked _at her. But Detective took her away from him. It was a sad loss and one that threw everything into a kind of confusion, like staring too long at the sun and then trying to focus on the world with bright, painful splashes of color in the way. Even more confusing was the smooth, efficient way Milly's removal had been handled. From one day to the next, she simply was not where she used to be.

And the fact that Detective had not sounded upset about what he had done to Milly that day on the phone. He had sounded surprised by the call, by the audacity it took to approach him in such a way. What he _hadn't_ sounded like, was disturbed or bothered or _anything_ quite like what the others might have sounded like. But was it an act? Because this one was an actor to his very soul. He might have entered the wrong profession. His act was so airtight, maybe no one saw through it. No one but him. And possibly the troubling Saverem who was always, always _there_. Even now, inside that building, they were together. Working together. Talking together. And Detective would look at Saverem with his eyes. His blue, distant eyes.

He gritted his teeth. Detective had to be different, didn't he?

But there are plenty of ways to destroy a man without ever touching him. All you need do is take the things he loves, crush them to dust, and burn them to ashes...

He fought a smile as he rolled down the window of his car and said, "Do I need a pass to park here?"

The kindly old man smiled, tipped his hat, and cooperated so wonderfully that the smile emerged despite his best efforts. The old man took it for sincerity.

Not too long after, he surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied air. He wanted to stay and watch his efforts come to fruition, but that was not something he could do.

Instead, he left as quickly as he came and, mimicking Detective, gave a friendly wave to the guard.

* * *

His footsteps echoed through the parking garage. And despite the heat of the morning and evening, it was cool down here. He had worked at this station just long enough so that the grease and oil stains on the floor were to the point where he no longer noticed them. He had been in this city, he reasoned, far too damn long. He hadn't been joking with Vash when he told him he was ready to go home. Though there were painful memories out east, he felt a longing to be back where he knew how things worked. Out here the system was truly and royally screwed. It wasn't necessarily corrupt. It was more that the things that should be done never seemed to get around to getting done. If they could handle their own business, he figured, they wouldn't need him. 

His eyes ached. He had worked far too long today. He felt wrung dry and broken. Truthfully, he didn't feel as if he was investigating at all anymore. Everyday was spent wading through paperwork and almost drowning in it. What if, while he was fighting with red tape, their one and only suspect slipped away?

They were only days away from making their move, but what if they were too late? So they had to burn the midnight oil. And it was taking its toll. Wolfwood looked a bit rough, stubble dappling his chin and lines around his mouth.

Vash didn't look any better. And the tension from their fight hadn't completely disappeared, which made working together all the more difficult. The fact that he refused to tell Vash about the phone call only added to the feeling of discomfort. True, when he was trying his best to keep his cool on the phone with a madman, he had wanted nothing more than to have Vash there with him. But the minute the opportunity to tell his partner arose, he clamped down on the words. Vash knew him too well to take that lying down. He knew something was wrong, and knew Wolfwood wouldn't tell him what it was. That made for an alternately sulky/snarling Vash. It wasn't the first time secrets had caused grief between them and Wolfwood was certain it wouldn't be the last. But this time it stung—both of them—worse than ever and he couldn't put his finger on why.

And on top of all of it, it was June 30th. The last day of the month, a grueling, frustrating Thursday worthy of such a burden. Picasso's pattern required two victims in June, and there had been nothing for over three weeks. All the patrolmen on duty tonight were told to keep an eye out for single women traveling alone and there had been a tension in the station all day. Would Picasso reveal victim seventeen to them tonight? Or would Kelly Morgan be the only casualty for the month of June? Wolfwood hoped that was the case, but he feared that Picasso was planning something that he wouldn't be able to stop until it was too late. At least night had finally come and he could put this miserable day out of its misery.

A light above him flickered agitatedly. The insufficient light shone down on a parking lot that looked as barren as a windswept avenue three hours before a parade. Without the rows and rows of cars snuggled in beside each other, the parking lot was too big, the emptiness too overwhelming. Everything was quiet; everything was poorly-lit and stained.

He fished inside his pocket for his keys. They jangled loudly. The sound bounced off the cold concrete and crashed back into his ears.

His feet took him to his car unfailingly while both his vision and his thoughts were elsewhere. He stopped.

Even without looking up, he knew it was wrong. He could smell it.

It was the sick smell of acrylic-resin burned and melted. The fumes were like plastic and latex with a hint of something tangy like acid all thrown in and then bathed in smoke.

Steeling himself, he raised his eyes, telling himself that he could handle this. He could handle _this_. _He could handle this. _

Reality told him he was a liar.

His car.

His _car_.

_His _car...

It was like a burn victim: skin melted, discolored, oozing together in cracks and crevices.

Puckered, mottled and smoking, she was hideous. A failing part of his mind cracked a joke: she was Cinderella long after midnight.

Wolfwood was not the kind of man to cry. Out of the sheer principle of it, he had only ever cried under extreme duress. At that moment, staring at the mutilated body of his car, Wolfwood felt like crying. What he did instead was bolt for the guard's station. Any cars leaving or going the department's parking lot came through here. He slid to a halt before the little booth. The slight, elderly guard was named Bert. He tipped his hat at Wolfwood though his eyes went wide at the expression on the young detective's face.

"'Evening, detective. Is something wrong?"

"Who's come this way?"

"Sir?"

"Who's come this way?" he repeated, his voice frantic.

"Um...since when?"

Wolfwood gaped and then actually had to fight not to laugh. As a detective, he was supposed to ask the right questions at all the right times. Yet here he was behaving like some idiot cop in a movie or a really bad detective story. If he had been knocked out cold, the first thing he would have asked upon waking was, "Where am I? Who are you?"

He was behaving like a bloody rookie.

He needed to think clearly, but seeing his Benz turned into so much steaming shit was enough to make even the toughest cop turn into a baby.

He started over. "Has anyone come by—at all—carrying a container, equipment, anything that could conceal—" _a large supply of something flammable and a match_, his mind supplied sarcastically, but he kept quiet.

"We've had some visitors, no one on foot. Just cars. Nothing too big. No deliveries, I mean. I...did something happen?"

Wolfwood sighed. He decided the fastest solution was to show the man. "Call someone to switch with you for a minute," he said and Bert complied quickly, his voice sounding friendly and experienced on the phone.

It was a moment before a fresh-faced guard arrived to switch places with Bert. "Be back soon," he said to the other man and then followed the glassy-eyed, shocked-looking younger man.

Detective and parking guard walked back through the ugly concrete and asphalt. Wolfwood stopped before what was left of his car. Bert gasped and then his mouth clamped shut. The minutes passed that way.

"Your Benz," Bert said after his speechlessness subsided.

"Yes," Wolfwood replied.

"Your baby?"

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"Thank you."

"I-I can't believe it." He walked around it, removed his hat like a mourner at a funeral, and scratched his head. "I just can't believe it. How? What?" He stopped and looked at Wolfwood as if he were a six-foot tall dancing lizard. "I-I can't believe you're taking this so well."

"Me either."

"I hate to admit it, but if this happened to me, I'd cry."

"It's a struggle, I promise you."

Bert made another round and then scratched his head. "But why?"

"No telling, Bert," Wolfwood lied easily. He was glad to have another human nearby. It kept him calm. Because he couldn't slip up in front of another person. He was still Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood no matter what became of the things he owned and loved.

"And why this shape?"

"The crosses, you mean?" Wolfwood asked, letting his mind acknowledge for the first time that the burns on the roof, hood, doors, and trunk of his car were in a shape. Not just heartless damage, no. Picasso had left him a message.

"Yeah," Bert said and scratched his head again. "I mean…crosses all over you car…" He shook his head firmly one last time and then suddenly pulled himself up straighter. "Well, we better get this reported. At the very _least_, they'll finally set up surveillance in the parking garage after something like _this_. I've been asking for it for _years_. All the new stations get _great_ setups, but do we? _No_, South gets ignored like always. I bet when they find out that _you_ have to suffer for it, they'll change their minds. Yessir, I bet they sure will..."

And the guard prattled on why Wolfwood stared ahead at the flaking black and scared metal that had once been hidden so well by shining coats of paint and finish.

The crosses stared back at him, whispering to him that some things, some things, _can't_ stay hidden.

* * *

The surprises from yesterday—having to drive home in his Benz, having to park her in the garage like _that_, and having to tell Vash about what had happened to his car—had hardly worn off when he had another. Waiting in his office the following afternoon, stoically ignoring the wall across from the desk was Frank Marlin. 

Frank looked bad. Unshaven, dark-circled, and with the drooping mouth of the worrier. It must have taken a lot to get him to come. "I...got a call from an old buddy—Hollister, you know him?" Wolfwood nodded and Frank continued.

"Well he mentioned...he said...What I mean is that I heard. About your car," he stuttered out the minute the door closed.

Wolfwood almost laughed. People approached the subject as if they were discussing a dearly loved relative who had passed away too soon. He wondered if his car got this kind of treatment from his friends and colleagues because he himself had always treated it that way. He guessed it was a mixture between deference to his obvious love for the Benz and genuine appreciation for a superior automobile.

"I'm very sorry," Frank added. "She was a good car. A beautiful car."

"Thanks," Wolfwood said.

"Hollister said the boys were thinking of pitching in to throw her a nice service," he said with a painfully forced smile as he tried out the joke awkwardly. Wolfwood gave him an equally forced smile for the effort.

"So what are you doing here. I don't want to slap you in the face with it, but if he got to my car while it was parked here at the station, odds are he saw you today."

Frank blanched, his ruddy face looking grotesque for just a moment. "Fuck, I know that," he snapped. "But I felt...I felt..." He waved vaguely before barking out, "Dammit, I felt guilty. I left you dangling. I never warned you properly. I was a goddamn coward for it and...Hell, Nick, if I had told you anything proper-like, maybe you wouldn't be in such a bad way.

Wolfwood regarded him as if seeing him for the first time. He had never believed Frank capable of any depth of feeling beyond the love he obviously felt for his daughter. That he could feel obligation and guilt when his own neck was on the line...

"Thank you," Wolfwood said honestly. "I appreciate you...thinking about my safety like that."

"'s nothing," Frank barked. "I heard and I...I had to come. Maybe I'm not too late to make good." There was a long pause and then he asked on a whisper, "So are you going to do it?"

Wolfwood's brows quirked impressively at the question. "Do what?"

"You know! Quit the case. Call off the investigation. Go back to your own beat. Whatever it is he asked! Are you gonna to do it?"

"He left you notes," Wolfwood stated simply, not really asking a question. "Warnings."

"Yeah, of course! What do you think I'm talkin' about, here?"

"Every time?"

"From the day I took over the investigation to the very last, he left me threats. Sometimes they were just notes. The day the bastard broke into my house, he wrote on my bathroom mirror." He held up a hand. "And before you ask, of course it was in blood. The little bastard has a flair for the dramatic."

"What did the notes say?" Wolfwood asked and sat down at his desk with a wave at Frank to do the same.

The bigger man settled into the chair across from him and hitched up the legs of his pants. "Same ol' same ol'. 'Quit or else.' 'Retire.' Stuff like that. Yeah, the things he did to me kept getting worse every time, but it was months before he actually took my Annie." Sobriety didn't let him talk about the subject of his daughter's abduction easily. Frank didn't look like he spent many comfortable hours outside of the bars he frequented anymore. He paused and winced after almost every word. "The way I figure, at least that means you've maybe got a few months before he does anything…more serious to you. Or your friends."

Wolfwood didn't feel a single urge to tell Frank how very wrong he was. With Milly, the phone calls, and now his car, Picasso was well invested in making his life hell.

"You've got time to get out, to stop this before he does what he did to your car to-to...some_one_, instead."

Wolfwood smiled wryly. "All right, that's great. But, let's just say he hasn't told me _anything_ like that. What do I do then?"

Frank's eyes went teacup wide. "What, ain't you getting notes?"

"No," Wolwood answered, honestly. "He's left me little surprises, he's damaged my car. But he hasn't made demands. Even when he called he—"

"He _called _you?" Frank interrupted and shot from his chair. It was as if his big frame suddenly seemed ready to bolt out of the room away from him.

"Yes," Wolfwood said, eyeing the former detective warily. "So he never called you?" he asked in a too-calm voice.

"Hell no. You mean he…he _called _you and…what? Chatted about the weather?" Frank asked, his voice going up a hysterical octave.

"Not quite."

Frank was suddenly shaking his head childishly, as if denying everything would make it go away. They had both come to the same conclusion and Wolfwood watched him, feeling sorry that the man had wasted a trip and his own safety in order to tell him information that no longer mattered.

Frank sat down again a if all the weight of the past two and a half years of his life finally crashed down onto his shoulders. Who could stand under weight like that? He had been threatened, his daughter kidnapped, his job all but stolen away from him. And he had just invited a fresh batch of pain from a man more than capable of delivering it. Frank was as close to beaten as Wolfwood had ever seen from the other side. As for himself, he was well used to the workings of his own mind.

When Frank spoke again, he sounded as if he might go home, curl up in bed, and maybe never wake again. "If...if he don't want you off the case, Nick," he began and looked up with weary eyes, "then what does he want from you?"

Wolfwood didn't have an answer. At least not one that would put Frank at ease. Or make himself feel any better.

When they parted, it was almost in silence save for a few exchanged warnings to be careful. Wolfwood would be checking in on Frank from now on, even if it took calling in a favor or two.

Left alone in his office, he thought about how sad it was that a person could try their best to do what they believed was the right thing and still get kicked in the ass for it. Frank was in more danger now than ever and it was all for nothing.

Not so long ago, he would have given quite a lot to know what it was that Picasso did to Frank. Now, it was as useless as hearing yesterday's weather forecast. Looking at it simply, Wolfwood knew that Picasso wasn't playing the same game with him. What he had done to Frank would be nothing like whatever it was he had planned for him.

For reasons he didn't know, Picasso had decided that he didn't _want_ him off the case. It was a heavy weight inside him that told him that Picasso wanted something else from him. It was July the first and Wolfwood wondered if the reason Picasso had yet to kill a seventeenth victim was because that victim was...

Vash had looked so afraid when he had told him about the car. His partner was not a coward and never had been. His fear had been for Wolfwood. He had stood in thoughtful silence for a moment and then said, "We'll get him," almost to himself. Vash felt fear for him, concern for _him._ It made his heart ache strangely.

He swallowed heavily and looked at the pictures on the wall, the violent _magnum opus_ of a murderer. He resolved that if his picture would be the next to adorn the wall that he was for damn sure taking the bastard with him.

To be continued...

Raise your hand if you saw _that_ coming! The way I figure it, no one was surprised with all the hints I've been dropping about the car. Maybe not even Wolfwood. Even still, hopefully it wasn't too painful to read. Thanks to all the readers and reviewers out there!

And (cough cough) after you review _this_ chapter (cough cough), you can click the link at the bottom and have another chapter to read! Wow! Two chapters in a day!

I mean, I guess you can click the link _without_ reviewing, but...er..._sigh_...never mind.

Up Next? Good luck storming the hotels...


	15. Caught

Warnings: Adult language, violence, disturbing content. Homosexual content. Not beta-read and don't even get me started on that...

* * *

Part XXVII: Caught

* * *

July 2nd arrived. 

The sunshine and muggy warmth of the day found Wolfwood's department in a frenzied rush. True, it was thanks to Vash that they were hardly a burden on the Hale Beach Police Department at all. At the most, the Hale Beach Police Department would act as backup if needed and provide a few men and squad cars. The 33rd wasn't troubling the smaller department and Wolfwood was glad for it. So Vash had worked another miracle.

That didn't mean that the days leading up to the big event weren't filled with meetings, more meetings, stern lectures from chief Bennigan where the veins in his neck and forehead and looked fit to burst, an unending rain of paperwork and late-night sessions that had both Vash and Wolfwood seriously questioning their decision to join the force.

"It's for the fat paycheck, right?" Vash had said one night in a voice dripping sarcasm. His head had hit the desk, landing squarely in wet ink from all the papers he was signing. But he refused to rest and his head had come back up a second later. Ever since Wolfwood's car had been destroyed, Vash had shown even more dedication to the case, something Wolfwood would have thought impossible before.

"Don't be stupid. It's for the fame, glory, easy women and fast cars." Wolfwood's voice had been even more sarcastic than his partner's. But now the day had arrived and their hard work would pay off. For better or for worse. Today they had the chance to learn _something_ that might help the case, possibly come into possession of a suspect, and at the very least, start a nice relationship with the Hale Beach PD. Things could be worse, Wolfwood reasoned. With the warrants finally signed, stamped, re-checked, re-signed, approved and filed, they were free to conduct their search and do a little seizure.

He woke up that morning, looked at the tired, haggard picture he painted, and smiled anyway. A kiss to the cross around his neck and he was ready to go.

He moved out at 10:00 am with a force of eight squad cars and thirteen additional officers, heading for the Southern Inn and Lodge. Two other units were bound for the Good Rest and their suspect's house, respectively. Vash led the team of five officers heading for Blondie's house. The house was a half an hour drive from the hotel in good traffic, so his partner had set out earlier, grumbling about insane police hours the whole time. It had taken that earlier start to get Vash at his destination roughly at the same time that Wolfwood arrived at his.

The third team was smaller—five squad cars—sent to the Good Rest, which was nearer inland and more of a trucker motel than anything. One of his detectives from the 42nd, a good cop named Eileen Pasina, was leading that team, composed mainly Hale Beach officers as the 33rd had been unable to spare them.

Thus divided, they hoped to cover all their bases. If he could help it, he wouldn't allow Ray Hawthorn, their mysterious blonde suspect, a chance to run.

When asked half-jokingly if he was being paranoid, Wolfwood had responded with a casual shrug of his shoulders. It wasn't that he expected trouble; it was that he preferred to be careful. His chief back out east had always said that if you're going to a knife fight, always have a spare knife in your boot, a derringer tucked into your belt, and a guy on the roof with a long-range rifle to cover you. Just in case.

Wolfwood had always rather taken the philosophy to heart.

And so here he was, on a long, scenic, but uneventful trip.

Midvalley rode with him and the pair talked the entire ride to the Southern Inn and Lodge. Midvalley drove what he happily exclaimed was _his _squad car. On the one hand, Wolfwood was grateful to be riding in a squad car for the first time in his life simply because his Benz wasn't fit to be seen. On the other hand, Midvalley was a slob. Wolfwood tried his best to keep from tidying the ungodly mess on the floor at his feet.

"This is against regulations," he told the beat cop as he poked at a greasy McDonalds' bag with his feet. Midvalley only shrugged, saying, "They don't check 'em everyday and I clean it when I have the time. Chin up, detective. It'll do you good to get your hands dirty."

"Hey," Wolfwood protested, "I really don't mind getting my hands dirty so long as I'm sure that when I pull them back, I'll still have all my fingers. You sure nothing's living in there?"

"Um...pretty sure," Midvalley said and then belched.

At the end of the day, Midvalley was a simple guy. He ate simple food, enjoyed simple pleasures and simply wanted to live a simple life, taking care of his wife and watching football in his free time. It was a kind of outlook Wolfwood could respect, but one he had a hard time understanding.

If anyone asked Officer Midvalley about Detective Wolfwood, he'd say he was a great guy. Easy to talk to. Knows a good joke. But, _man_, he'd say in a secretive whisper, that guy's a bit...creepy. Intense...you know?

Luckily, their differences didn't keep the pair from talking like old friends, or the trip to the hotel would have been intolerable.

They teased each other about their sports loyalties—Wolfwood was a diehard Crushers fan no matter how badly they played and Midvalley only supported his hometown team, the July Typhoons.

"The Typhoons," Midvalley explained, "always pull through for their fans. Sometimes you worry about their draft picks, but then the guy they get turns out to be the best linebacker in the damn division."

"Oh, yeah," Wolfwood said and drew out the sound, thinking. "What's that short guy from Japan they got?"

"Watanabe. Not a linebacker. Kicker, man, kicker. And man that guy can kick. I only saw him foul up once and turns out he had a cracked growth plate."

"What's a growth plate?"

Midvalley frowned. "I don't know. But if all the Japanese can play football like him, I say we send some scouts over and round them up. I hear football's really taking off over there. In Japan. Or was that Korea?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nah, serious as a heart attack. Saw it on the news."

It occurred to Wolfwood that the conversation was far too mundane when they were winding their way to a resort hotel to arrest someone. From sports they talked about movies, but Midvalley soon gave up on Wolfwood when he realized that the detective hadn't been to the theater in a very long time. The last five action hits had completely flown over the detective's radar.

"What do you do with your free time?" Midvalley asked, his face a mix of horror and awe.

"What free time?"

And all too soon they passed over a bridge that looked down over the coast. A wide swath of toasted sand butted against water so blue it was like a child's drawing. Sunlight glittered on the water. In a bit of abandon, Midvalley let down the window and the car was immediately filled with the sharp tang of salt air.

"Nice," he said. "The missus wants to come out here for the Fourth. I hear they have a killer fireworks display out this way. Right over the water. And they serve barbeque and have local bands come out and play for all the kids."

"You saw it on the news?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

* * *

Vash surveyed the house on the approach. According to what they had dug up, it was rented in Hawthorn's name and had been for the past year. Seeing it was so different from looking at words on a piece of paper. 

It looked perfectly normal. It was what a million unsuspecting neighbors would probably say about Picasso once they finally caught him. Yes, he was just so _normal_. I never would have suspected him of doing _that_. Killing young girls and leaving their bodies in a jumbled mess? _Him?_ Never!

Vash almost rolled his eyes at the idea. He stopped and thought for a minute about exactly why he was tempted to do something like that. His conclusion was that he had been hanging around with Wolfwood far, far too long. He never used to roll his eyes. Or make cynical comments. Or regard the foibles of life with dry wit and a sharp tongue. They guy was rubbing off on him.

The very neighbors from his imagining peeked through their curtains and around front doors to see the squad cars line up like ducks before the small yard. So long as it had nothing to do with them, people always wanted to know what the cops were up to. Vash felt his eyes start to move again and fought the urge diligently.

A quick radioed message to let the other teams know their position, and Vash and the five officers under his command exited their vehicles and convened for a short moment. Two officers—Douglas and Lewis—were to wait by the squad cars, Vash and the young officer Mahoney from Hale Beach would take the front door, and Maher and Ramsey were to the move and cover the back of the house. Hawthorn's house was squished together with his nearest neighbor's and the narrow passage leading to the back was perfect for a small child to hide in, but not for grown men to maneuver in. In particular, the tire-waisted Ramsey would struggle to make the fit.

With no clear path to the door, they crossed the grass, which had been cut too short, watered poorly, and was browning. It crunched beneath Vash's shining shoes. The street before the house was quiet and empty making every noise that did come all the louder.

The house was a single-storied affair, white with peeling paint, and boasting a new porch of blonde wood. The garage was a different shade of white than the rest and looked as new as the porch. There was nothing too outstanding about the place; no bits of the leasing tenant's personality showed in festive decorations for the upcoming holiday. No baubles sat in the window; no welcome wreaths dangled from the door. It was just a house, nothing special. And yet...

He moved to the door, gun at the ready. He waited until he was certain Maher and Ramsey were in place before saying, "This is the police. We have a warrant for the arrest of Ray Hawthorn!" He could hear Douglas and Lewis' feet on the sidewalk behind him. Despite the heat of the day, he felt a shiver.

Something wasn't right.

There was a crash from Vash's left a second later. It was the sound of new garage door splintering into a million pieces. The sound of tires screaming. Vash spun, his gun already out, cocked, and ready to shoot.

A white car had torn from the garage. The police car blocking the drive didn't stop the driver. Nor did the officer in his way.

The car smashed first into Douglas' stocky frame, sending him tumbling into Vash's sights. Vash took the steps in a single leap, ran two paces and then pulled up short when the first of the police cars—whose nose blocked the driveway—took the full brunt of the car's impact. The white car rammed into its front and sent it into a spin into the street.

Glass sprayed across the ground, making Lewis duck as it rained down on him. There was a grunt, like someone in pain and then Vash could hear Ramsey behind him screaming, "Dammit, forget about me! Shoot the bastard!"

The car, driven by a lanky blonde with wild eyes, whipped down the street, fishtailing at dangerous speeds. The momentum from the crash had upset the driver, making him jar the wheel erratically. But he was too desperate to slow. Vash, too, hadn't stopped moving once but had launched himself across the grass, jumping over Douglas' prone figure and weaving around the shocked Lewis. He stood squarely in the center of the road.

His shoulders lifted and rolled back, his arms steady and stretched out before him. He sighted down the barrel of the gun and fired off three shots so quickly they sounded like one. He heard Mahoney's shots sound from behind him and to the left. Mahoney got off six.

The car turned right, the rear flailing out in the corner. Vash lowered his gun, smirking.

If he was as superstitious as his partner, he would have believed that Blondie had a dozen rabbit's feet in his pocket because all three of his shots had failed to blow the tires. He wasn't surprised that Mahoney had missed—he aimed too high and his hand jerked on the kickback. But that _he_ had missed?

The explanation, he figured, was that Blondie's panicking had given him the kind of advantage only granted to those who had everything to lose and the one's sent to take it poised before them, ready to attack.

Vash wanted to swear, but it wasn't his style. Instead, he holstered his gun and shouted out orders. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that, were this a movie, he could just hop in his car, radio HQ and begin the dramatic chase scene. But their were injured cops on the scene, and, more importantly, a _scene_ that couldn't be abandoned at all. The neighbors were peeking again, too afraid to come out. Some of them had phones in their hands as they stood at the window. What kind of idiot came to the window when they heard gunshots, Vash wondered.

Ramsey came limping out towards them, his body supported by Maher, who apparently hadn't listened to his partner's orders to forget about him and "shoot the bastard".

"Tripped in the stupid alley," the big man explained.

The officers moved to stand over Douglas. "The bastard came out of nowhere," the bleeding cop said, looking shocked and holding his side where he lay on the ground.

Lewis stood to join them, looking shaken and embarrassed. Vash took stock of the situation. This was going to get blown out of proportion and soon.

Five minutes in and he already had two injured officers and his suspect fleeing the scene with a good lead. Wolfwood was going to _love_ hearing all the details about this one. Luckily, they hadn't lost Blondie _yet_. Not yet.

"Mahoney, Lewis, you're with me. Maher and Ramsey, you stay here, call for an ambulance and at least two additional units. I want this place roped-off opened up and searched from top to bottom by dinner. Maher, you're in charge. Report to me immediately if anybody so much as comes by to sell Girl Scout cookies. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Maher said and Vash wondered if he only imagined that Maher looked relieved to stay behind. He suspected that it had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with staying behind to watch over his partner. He suddenly thought of Wolfwood.

A jerk of his head later and he was settled in the driver's seat for the first time today. He adjusted the seat to give his long legs room. Maher was a head shorter than him.

In his rearview window, he watched Mahoney and Lewis slide into their car, Lewis looking comfortable and ready behind the wheel. The snap of his seatbelt sounded seconds before the screech of tires. He left streaks of black on the pavement.

* * *

Wolfwood lit a cigarette, looking disgruntled enough to keep famished lions away from him. It certainly worked to keep Midvalley away from him. The other officer smoked his own cigarette at a safe distance. 

Wolfwood realized that he was already taking a smoke break and it was only twenty minutes into the entire thing. That was a bad sign. But at least the view was lovely. The hotel was an award-winning resort hotel for a reason, he guessed. It had that feeling of Southern Hospitality about it. The entire building could have been in "Gone With the Wind" with all the pillars and clean, white paint. From what he gathered, they charged in spades for the experience of old-fashioned style. Wolfwood almost laughed. It was a shame the guests didn't know about the faulty wiring.

From the revolving doors—features he was sure were new additions—he could hear the voices of the Hale Beach officers as well as those of the JCPD as they got down to business. He didn't hold up much hope that they would get very far today.

At least it was true that police officers in a fancy hotel lobby brought the management faster than dirty towels in the Honeymoon Suite. Unfortunately, all the helpful intentions and friendly smiles in the world couldn't change the unsatisfactory results.

Wolfwood hadn't been shocked when things had to go through the chain of command. First they had dealt with a pretty, dark-haired woman named Dominique who had some authority at the hotel, but apparently not _enough_ authority. She had smiled nervously at them, told them that _she_ couldn't do anything, but that she'd go get someone who_ could_. She had exited in a hurry and returned quite awhile later with the manager. Wolfwood gave her a thoughtful look, but then got down to business.

It was the fun part of being a cop: giving orders. Nobody leaves the building, everyone cooperates, we leave when we're finished. Understood?

And then once his orders had died down, the nervous, pencil-mustached hotel manager had started in on his. "What is this all about? Are we in some kind of trouble?"

Then he had puffed out his thin chest and asked the question every man with petty authority hopes to ask one day, "Do you have a warrant?"

Wolfwood had let out a slow stream of smoke from his nose. "Several." With a wave of his hand, the officers moved out, tearing through the hotel like the horsemen of the apocalypse.

But after the initial questions about Hawthorne had been met with answers like:

"Ray Hawthorn? I haven't seen him in _ages_. Does he still work here?"

"Ray, Ray...? Was he a bell boy?"

Wolfwood had felt ready to punch something. So their boy wasn't on premises and he could only hope that Vash and Pasina's teams were having better luck.

So here he was. His team was still in there for the most part, though Wolfwood and Midvalley were back outside, enjoying a smoke break in the sea air. The manager hadn't seemed to like them smoking inside. Besides, for Wolfwood, the interior of the hotel held an eerie déjà vu. He had seen it so many times in the photos of Kelly and Angela that he felt as if he had been here before. Getting outside was good.

He leaned against the hood of the squad car, idly listening to the radio messages coming through on their channel.

Suddenly, the radio blasted static, the audio version of an off the air television station, fuzzing specks of color and black and white jumbles. A voice came through.

"Saverem to Wolfwood, over."

Wolfwood rounded to the lowered window of the squad car, leaned in as far as he could and snatched the radio out.

"Wolfwood here. What's up, partner? Donut break?" Wolfwood asked, enjoying disregarding airwave protocol.

"Ha, ha. Not even close. Two units in pursuit of suspect down West I-90, over."

"Pursuit?" Wolfwood asked, surprised.

"That's right, buddy. We've got ourselves a runner. Yee-hah," Vash answered with a cowboy twang. As his transmission cut off, another cut in, this of a woman with a mechanically perfect voice sending out the word for backup.

"...units be advised. Suspect is driving a 1999 Toyota Celica. Color is white. The front left of the vehicle is damaged. Plates read..."

Vash's voice cut in again: "Actually, I'd say the front of the vehicle is Swiss cheese, but that's just me."

"...casian male, age 27, blonde hair. It is believed that the suspect answers to the name 'Ray Hawthorn'. He should be considered highly dangerous and potentially armed."

Wolfwood ducked out of the car window and waved to Midvalley he jogged over, all his trepidation in dealing with the detective disappearing as duty called. "We're leaving a few of the Hale Beach boys here, but the rest of us are moving out. Contact Pasina and have her do the same. Five minutes and we're gone."

Midvalley nodded and then his strides had him inside the building following Wolfwood's orders. Wolfwood slid into the driver's seat and brought the radio back to his mouth. "Wolfwood to Saverem, over."

"Read you partner. Woah! He just ran red light number six!"

Wolfwood face crumbled as an idea occurred to him. "They're not...letting you _drive_, are they?" he asked with a terrified voice.

"Are you implying that I can't drive?"

"I'm not _implying_ anything. It's a miracle you have a license at all."

"I resent that!" Vash said and then gasped. "Geez! He just clipped a mail truck! That's a federal offense!"

"Vash!" Wolfwood shouted into the radio.

"Sorry, but am I getting back up here, or what? Suspect is heading straight for the border, and it's just me and one other car out here."

"He's coming _our_ way?" Wolfwood asked and looked out the window as if he expected to see a Toyota Celica screaming down the road towards him.

"That's what I said! Now get the lead out, lieutenant!"

Midvalley hurried to stand beside the detective, somewhat breathless. From the hotel five of the unit's officers poured while the rest remained to take care of the loose ends. Midvalley told Wolfwood the details of the arrangement in a rush, earning a nod of approval from the detective.

Vash's irritated voice broke through again. "Suspect just turned right on Patterson and I'm _still_ without confirmed backup. How _does_ something like that happen, I wonder?"

Midvalley watched as a giant smile spread across Wolfwood's face. To him the expression didn't fit with the knowledge that his partner was involved in a dangerous chase, pursuing a suspect.

"What's the smile for?" he asked, suspiciously.

Wolfwood threw his cigarette onto the pavement and stepped on it. "Because innocent men don't pull a runner," he answered. And then he leapt into action.

* * *

The sirens were just background noise. To Vash it seemed that cars leapt out of his way as he chased like a dog. He never lost sight of the Celica, though it was a close thing. Lunch-rush-traffic on major roads made for more than a few moments when Vash felt his heart nearly stop. 

Under a bridge and barreling to a four way stop. The light went yellow and then thundered to red. Once again, Blondie didn't stop. Neither did Vash. He went through the intersection watching cars hurtle towards him on either side. It sounded as if thousands of horns were leaned on. He made it through by the skin of his teeth, but over the din of the sirens and the horns and the buzzing radio, he heard a grinding noise like a wrecking ball into a building. A glance at his side mirror showed Lewis' car slammed into the side of a full-size truck, hood popped and steaming. He didn't even have time to spare a thought for the safety of the two officers in the car.

He was alone. For whatever reason, the requested units hadn't arrived yet. Where _was_ Wolfwood? He'd take _any_ backup at this point, but Wolfwood in particular would be appreciated.

The white Celica whipped in and out of lanes, forcing Vash to try things he never would if the situation wasn't desperate. Yes, Wolfwood would be nice, especially since a persistent voice reminded him that _this_ was why his partner usually drove.

Blondie jerked to the left, speeding up a ramp and onto the highway. Vash was late to respond and his door smashed into barrels, overturning them and sending water cascading over black asphalt. He recovered, barely, and found himself darting in and out of highway lanes, chasing someone crazy enough to try anything not to be caught.

The stint on the highway ended shortly. Blondie was following a course he knew and very well at that. But where was he going and what did he expect to gain from going there?

The pair of them twisted through the streets, but still no one came. Vash made a mad dash for his radio. "Saverem, over. I'm doing 80 down—" his head whipped to catch the sign, "—Franklin. I've just got to know: is 'backup' a word that doesn't exist in Hale Beach?"

There was a pause and then the cool voice of the dispatcher. "We read you detective. Units have been dispatched."

He glared at the radio and didn't even bother to cradle it properly. The device dangled and swayed with every wild turn he took. The buildings around him were getting larger, grayer, older. _Industrial_, Vash thought with an uncomfortable feeling. The borrowed, battered squad car chased the Toyota through a maze of turns. Abandoned buildings cut into the air, the broken windows of the ancient buildings like toothless smiles, twisted and black.

Blondie took another corner and Vash could already see the danger: the turn was too fast and poorly timed. He heard the crash before he slowed to follow. What greeting him was the sight of the car's front wrapped around a telephone pole. The force from the blow made the wood sway. Vash slammed on the brakes and his body lurched forward. His chest snapped hard into the seatbelt and it knocked the air from his chest.

A white flash like fireworks went off before his eyes. He had to fight to keep from lurching to the side. When he shook away the disorientation, it was to see a blonde figure disappearing between two buildings, limping and holding his shoulder. Vash didn't doubt that the impact had probably sent many of Blondie's bones flying out of place. He radioed what he could about his location and didn't even wait for a reply.

Vash staggered breathlessly out of the car. The bright light from above was glaring where it bounced off the pavement and Vash squinted into the distance as he unholstered his gun. A flicker of movement to his right sent him moving that way. Before he knew it, he was chasing the sound of footsteps into the chilled air of a factory that had last seen use perhaps two-dozen years before. It was all metal and dust at his feet and above him. Grime clung to the tall windows and cast greasy light onto the floors. His feet slipped and he followed the marks in the dust until he came to a stairwell. Less dust fell here and he was unsure of where to go once the footsteps ended. Only the sound of hurrying steps made him sure it was this building and not one of the others that Blondie had entered.

He took the stairs cautiously and swung out to look at each landing. The hallways leading away from the stairwell were all the same: long corridors, high ceilinged and vacant. The noises stopped. There was nothing, not even the gust of air through the broken windows. All he could smell was dust and mold, the friends of decay cloying in the dim light.

He came to the landing of the top floor, for the first time wondering about the stability of the building. What if it all came crashing down around him? He crept down the hall, spinning occasionally as his situation became clear.

The space was too large. He couldn't cover himself and couldn't keep his eye on everything. Something that sounded like a door slamming and something dragging across the floor reached his ears. He made his way to towards the sound. He went through a doorway and found himself in a wide room with a strange, cage in the center. It was constructed of metal fencing and reached high into the air. The top was open and an awkward door was chained closed on the side farthest from him. Inside were boxes, as if the room was used for storage. Belatedly, Vash realized how much neater, almost organized, this area was than the others. Someone had cleaned.

Yet the darkness and the dim lighting and the pressing silence reminded him of things he preferred not to think about. He stared at the metal fence and blinked when his mind showed him the specter of a memory, the flash of a figure, bound and bleeding, red hair shining dully in the light.

He blinked again and it was gone as soon as it had come, but it left him disoriented and off his guard. He spun a few times, searching the room, before deciding to move on, and then backed away, back towards the entrance.

An eerie nails-on-chalkboard creak like a door closing sounded behind him, making him whirl on his toes. The first and last thing he saw was the blur of the bat streaking towards his head.

* * *

_"I'm not going to tell you it's okay,"_ Detective Wolfwood had said to him the first day they met. Truly met, that is. The detective had talked to him like a kid that day. And maybe he had been. Certainly, of all the people who had tried, only the charismatic detective had gotten through to him. Only Detective Wolfwood had been able to help him. 

_"And I'm not going to offer my services if you need someone to talk to, understand?"_

_"Yes, sir,"_ he had answered, hating the fact that his voice sounded thick.

_"Good. I'm also not going to try and persuade you to stay on the force. Do you know why?"_

_"No."_

_"It's because you have no intention of quitting."_

He had twisted his face into petulance. _"How do you know? I could—"_

_"But you won't, Saverem. And _how _I know that is because nobody learns to shoot like you do without knowing what they're getting into first. You've got your reasons for why you learned to kill and why you don't like to. I'm sure you've got a million reasons in that blonde head of yours for all the things you do. And you don't have to tell them to the chief. And you sure as hell don't have to tell them to me."_

Vash had looked at him wearily, far too upset to really listen to the words.

_"What you _do_ have to do, is your job. And if your job says you have to kill someone, you do it because it's what you signed up for. What you _have_ to do is realize that if you'd let that one live, he'd have killed dozens. You think about _that_ while you sit there feeling sorry for yourself."_

He had stood then, looking too composed and calm to be real. _"The rest of the world would call you a hero," _he'd whispered in that rough voice.

And in answer to the words, all Vash could think to say was, _"It hurts." _To this day, he couldn't explain what had made him say the words at all.

_"It always will, kid. That's how you know you're alive. Worry when it stops hurting." _

_

* * *

_

He awoke to the feeling that he was going to be sick. It was like a thousand churning oceans in his stomach, each one going against the current. He tried to move his hands to cover his mouth...

He couldn't move. His mind was so fuzzy it took more than a minute for him to realize that his arms were splayed away from his body and bound at the wrists. Most of his weight was held up by the thin joints. His feet, which felt heavy and swollen, were bound together and secured tight to the fencing. All of this he became aware of before he attempted to open his eyes. Only after he did so—and only darkness gazed back—did he realize that he was blindfolded.

The pain in his head was a wavering throb from his forehead down. His neck was stiff and his shoulders felt strained with his arms stretched out on either side of his body as they were. It was difficult to breathe; the position contracted his lungs making air like water in the desert. The pain and the breathlessness left him feeling weak, always on the verge of descending again into the womb of unconsciousness.

There was the bitter lingering of a memory on his tongue. _I'm hurting_, he thought. _Does that mean I shouldn't worry, partner?_

He heard footsteps. There was the splash of a puddle. The sounds echoed off what could only be a high ceiling and Vash wondered if he was somehow tied to the cage he had seen before.

A shoe squeaked on the ground. And then came the silence once more.

As sudden as a rainstorm can come in spring, Vash knew someone stood before him. They were close enough to touch him, but they didn't move. Part of him wanted to cry out to them for help. This was the part of him that Wolfwood accused of being too trusting, almost childlike. For perhaps the first time, he had to agree with his cynical partner. Whoever stood before him now was not here to help him. More than likely, their purpose was quite the opposite.

He wondered if they were staring at him and what their expression was. What did they think about as they watched him helpless and bleeding? The sensation of body heat and the faintest puff of breath reached him from the other occupant of the room.

"Maybe you're just like me," a resonating voice said with odd frankness. The sound told Vash that they stood a mere foot away from him and somewhat lower than where he hung. The voice itself was remarkable and beautiful in the same way that an out-of-tune violin can be beautiful. Something about it was just that: broken. Sweet, poisoned wine.

"You move around him, chained by the gravity of him," the man continued in what sounded like the first melancholy notes of a concerto. "You're engulfed in all that dark light he lets off. You've been pulled into his world and can't escape and maybe you don't want to. But no matter what you do, you're never a real part of it. You're never a real part of him. I understand how that feels. I understand how very much it hurts."

Vash's mind couldn't focus on the words. He heard them, and the meaning of each word was simple enough. But when he put them together, it was gibberish. Who and what was he talking about? What was he saying?

The heat strengthened; the man had taken a step closer. His breathing was heavy, almost labored. It was the kind of breathing that came from the sick and dying. Or from the insane who stared at the sky, their necks craned back as the sun blinded them.

"But you're so very lucky," he hissed and it was a hateful sound. "You see him—up close, just like this—everyday. You work with him and talk to him and sometimes you stand too close to him or your hands touch accidentally."

Vash's heart plummeted with a dull thud. _Oh, god_, he thought. _Oh, no, no_...

A part of him knew that there was no other meaning to be taken from these words. It wasn't a puzzle or a riddle or a trick. It was probably the truest thing he'd ever heard. But it was a hideous truth and one that made his stomach surge in protest. His tormentor didn't care. He continued, speaking almost like a child in awe of a new discovery.

"Everyday, you alone are there to see him change. He has a million sides, doesn't he? And you're the one who's seen them all. He lets you near him. Not too close, but close. It makes me think that you're almost the next best thing. Almost close enough." Now there was something desperate in that achingly comely voice. There was something...needful in the chords and pitch of it. He hissed in a sibilant voice, "Has he rubbed off on you? If I touch you, is it the same as touching him?"

The flinch that racked Vash body when a hand stroked down his bloodied face was accompanied by a gasp of surprise. Long, cool fingers caressed his cheek, the smooth skin of his jaw where it stretched over strong bone, the curve of his throat. Sightlessness made the other senses heightened, hyper-aware. The chill might as well have been a brand for all that it burned him.

Vash made no sound after that initial gasp. His breathing was shallow and it was a struggle to stay calm. He was blind to everything around him, blind to his assaulter. He felt powerless and small—weak, light-headed and dull. And what this man said…it made no sense. Or perhaps he was only fighting the words because they made perfect sense.

When the voice spoke again, it was against his ear. Moist breath tickled the hair at his temple and sent goose bumps down his neck. "No, I guess it's not the same. Still, you will make an excellent messenger. You can do that for me, can't you?" As he spoke, the path of that breath moved from his ear, along his cheek...

"Tell Chapel," he breathed against Vash's mouth, "that this is for him." And with that his lips descended, not with force, but with light, cool pressure. Though he couldn't move away from the contact, a part of Vash threw back its head and screamed at hearing that name. So many years ago. So many days passed since that pain had hidden like a coward.

But the kiss...the kiss...

It stole away his ability to do anything. It was like being kissed by the gentlest waves in a shallow pool. All slowly lapping crests of cool blue and gusts of breath like wind that warmed his skin. Vash kept his lips closed firmly against the assault, his mind writhing as the kiss continued, timeless. It was searing for all it might have been sweet.

Vash felt as if this broken man with the broken voice was trying to inhale something from him, trying to absorb into his body something that Vash had. Perhaps, after all, he truly believed what he had said about Vash being _close enough_ to the thing he really wanted. Perhaps he tasted on Vash's lips the air that hung about his obsession, the wreaths of tobacco smoke that circled his head, the smiles that graced his face, the secrets he'd never share. Not even with Vash.

The man suddenly growled like a beast, unsatisfied and the kiss deepened. Now it was desperate and hurried and barely contained a lust that was the farthest thing from sexual. This was something much more primal. Something to do with possession.

_And if this kiss wasn't for him..._

How long it lasted, he couldn't say. And it kept changing, chameleon-like, so that his mind could not focus. Because the kiss was a million things at once, and none of them stayed long, but each one left a tattoo of sensations on him. There were riddles hidden in every flick of a tongue; dark whispers in the teeth that pulled at his bottom lip; the stain of violence in every breath; a promise simmering under the surface. It was madness.

It spoke of the slithering kind of emotions that cower in shadows and under rocks, biding their time until one day they can lunge forward, strong and terrible and ready to rend the world apart. And his desperate snarls at what the kiss lacked would never be soothed because Vash was not what he wanted.

_And if this kiss—this horrible, beautiful kiss—was for..._

When it was finally broken, it was broken languidly, as if time hardly mattered.

"It's like trying to keep a flame in your hand; like chasing a mayfly," the man whispered strangely. Hearing the distant, pained tone of voice, Vash knew he wasn't being addressed. The other man was talking to himself, or to the voices in his head, or to the demons that dogged his steps. Vash knew this as surely as he knew one other thing: that this man's insanity was a more refined version of the commonplace kind that littered the streets and shelters. He was the next step up from those men you encounter on dark rainy days and try to forget, the ones that make you cross the street to avoid them and the waves of madness that pour from them. Those men who scream out at invisible specters. The ones you see rocking themselves steadily on the bus or curled up in the filth of subway stations. The scared and grimed men who rail about Armageddon, who preach to the air about angels and devils. The wild-eyed men who know what waits for you in the dark. The men you hope you never meet again.

Vash knew with unshakable certainty that the man who tormented him now was one of these, but he was the subtle kind. Upon meeting him, no one would ever notice his insanity until it was too late to save themselves from it. And he couldn't say exactly why, but he couldn't believe that the desperate man he had chased here, and the monster who had kissed him were the same man. His mind couldn't make them match up.

He could have sighed in relief when the heat finally retreated but for lack of air to do it. The other man was backing away from him.

"Tell him. Show him," the voice commanded softly. "Sleep." And Vash found himself unable to do anything but.

His last thought before consciousness left him completely was of the kiss and the danger hidden within it. He had to get to Wolfwood. He had to warn him. He had to...

Darkness came again, as welcome as the arms of a mother.

To Be Continued...

Yes, I'm well aware of the special place in hell reserved just for me. But I gotta tell you...that kiss was damn fun to write. Midvalley's fun, too. Dumbest line in the entire chapter: "And then he leapt into action." What the hell does that mean? Ah, well. I can't write well all the time, I guess.

Thanks to all the reviewers out there! And...er...sorry about the delay. Thanks to readers and reviewers alike! Ho, ho, ho! Merry Slash-mas!

Up Next: Sometimes the answers are hidden in the one place you don't want to go...


	16. Evergreen

Warnings: Strong language, disturbing content, homosexual overtones. Not beta-read and typo-rrific! I don't own anything but my laptop.

Author's note: The first few chapters have been reorganized. The story is the same length, but now the chapter count is off. This SHOULD be chapter 18, if you were wondering. So, no, you're not crazy, I am.

* * *

Part XXVIII: Evergreen

* * *

Wolfwood didn't scream. He said nothing at all. Yet in an instant of movements and expressions, he said more than a scream ever could. His gun was holstered in a blur and, almost as if he had flown instead of run, he was already before the body dangling in the center of the room, crucified. Vash's arms were spread out far away from his body, his wrists bound, as were his feet. The white shirt his partner had carefully buttoned that morning hung off him, stained and ripped and bonds around his wrist dripped a steady flow of crimson that splattered onto the floor like fresh paint. 

Midvalley and the rest of the team swept in a minute after Wolfwood, but none of them could move for staring at the sight before them.

Vash was blindfolded, his head dropping like the snow-heavy boughs of a tree. And in the hazy light made surreal by the glowing dust swirling before the high windows, Wolfwood was standing below him, head tilted back, still like a penitent man before God. He lifted his hand as if he might cup his partner's chilled, pale cheek. Instead, he placed it in the center of Vash's chest to support him and, with the other, began working on the knots of rough fabric holding him to the metal fence. His fingers slipped on the damp fabric. His movements were jerky like he was fighting tremors.

Midvalley almost missed the sound for how intently he was staring. Finally, he could make out the quietly panicked chant:

"Help me. Help me! Stop standing there and help me. Help me get him down."

A few officers behind the still Midvalley rushed over. Unconsciously shouldering responsibility, Midvalley sent the rest on to continue exploring the crumbling factory building. He didn't remember giving the order later on when he tried to. In fact, hours after the moment when he could finally sit down and have a cup of coffee, only one thing stood out dramatically in his mind: the pained sound of Wolfwood's voice begging for help.

After a minute's work, Vash's motionless form came floating forward to waiting arms. His long body drifted down, caught in the weak rays of light that shot into the room. He seemed weightless, timeless and otherworldly, like a painting. He slumped forward against Wolfwood who caught him in what was almost an embrace. Wolfwood's long arm held Vash around his waist while the other hand cradled his head against his shoulder. It might have looked like dancing had Vash been able to hold him back. Vash's toes brushed the ground as Wolfwood had to lean back to keep him upright.

Perhaps there were words to describe the moment, but watching with his mouth dry, Midvalley couldn't say what they were.

He suddenly remembered something he had seen on the news, not so long ago. A woman had been separated by a war and a wall from her husband. It was an old story. But the woman, whose speech had turned slurred and weak in the years she waited, had looked into the camera with fierce, pale eyes and said she'd never die until she found him again. So a lifetime later, she had waited there as the men with their hammers tore down the wall. And after that small section of it fell and the dust cleared, she had seen him standing there on the other side, staring across the debris and looking for her. When the lovers had raced across the rubble, fighting the tide of dozens and dozens of others just like them, they had clung to each other like the sky wrapping around the earth, like rosary beads around the hand of priest.

Midvalley thought of that moment now, of that husband and wife clutching each other because there was nothing else in the world worth holding on to, nothing else in the world they wanted beyond what they had found again. He didn't quite know where the thought came from, but it left a strong impression on him and wouldn't go away.

The other officers in the room backed away from the detectives as if pushed by waves. It was a moment before Wolfwood lowered to his knees, taking Vash with him. He cradled him in his arms, looking down at him silently. No one could see his face, but they wondered. He sat there for a painful, silent moment, his dark hair falling over his eyes.

"Call an ambulance," he whispered. "Now." And nobody dared disobey.

* * *

Crime scenes don't just magically take care of themselves. This was most unfortunate at the moment. Wolfwood's mind was somewhere else, but he couldn't join it because he had teams to organize, people to call. Just because it felt as if everything that mattered had died and left him to suffer through it, he still had a job to do. He had watched the ambulance drive away and felt his body lean and shift to follow it. Knowing that he couldn't hurt. It was a dull pain that throbbed while he did all the things he was supposed to with half the attention it deserved. Luckily, the Hale Beach officers and detectives were understanding and remarkably self-sufficient. The abandoned factory that loomed ugly and crumbling in the heart of what had once been a thriving industrial area was roped off and crawling with officers before Wolfwood was even aware of it. 

They moved through the building cautiously and with confidence, but deferred to Wolfwood's opinion. If he said, "Don't stand there," nobody stood there. In a few hours of working with him, the Hale Beach officers came to realize that he was intelligent, experienced, and easy to respect. They also learned that he was a difficult man to go against.

And in his current mood, he was a _dangerous _man to go against. And while they understood, really, it didn't make the experience more pleasant. He snapped at more than a few people who didn't do anything wrong. He yelled at anyone who irritated him, and quite a few of the men and women on the scene were relieved when he would disappear to answer one of the endless streams of calls that came through his cell phone. No matter how brilliant he was, the distractions that kept him off their case were welcome ones. The most welcome of all came in the form of Commissioner Evergreen. He was out of his state and his jurisdiction, but he seemed just as comfortable and confident as ever when he arrived on the scene.

His sleek, black car rounded the corner and came to a stop before the battered factory where everything had gone so wrong. When the door was opened by a neat looking youth in a business suit, Evergreen unfolded his long body and looked around until he spotted Wolfwood. Broad-shouldered and sunglassed, the Commissioner was an impressive figure of a man. He was also someone Wolfwood didn't want to talk to.

It wasn't that he disliked Evergreen. Far from it, he respected him for working with the tools that he had been given and trying to keep the July PD up and running when it was such a flawed system. What irked him about the man was the air of distrust that wafted off him. Wolfwood wasn't a fool and it was easy to see that Evergreen didn't trust him any more than a shepherd trusted a wolf near his flock. What made it worse was that Evergreen knew things—certainly not everything, but the general idea—and that only deepened his caution when dealing with Wolfwood. At a time like this when the past was prodding him and whipping him from the back of his mind, dealing with a man who didn't trust him because of that past was uncomfortable.

Wolfwood approached and shook the other man's hand wearily. "Commissioner Evergreen," he said.

"Detective. Good to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances. I'm sorry. About your partner. I truly am."

"Thank you," Wolfwood forced out and then with a glance at his watch said, "You must have left July shortly after the call for an ambulance was placed or else you wouldn't have gotten here so soon."

Evergreen looked around suspiciously, nodded towards the officers standing within earshot, and then guided the detective away with a heavy hand on his shoulder. They came to a pause a fair distance away, near the entrance to a smaller building of uncertain purpose.

"I did. I did. So many of my officers are here, four of them are injured, and it doesn't look like any of you will be coming back any time soon. I felt it was my duty to come. Honestly, I can't wrap my mind around how something like this could happen. I really can't. A young, respected detective left to handle something like this alone? What happened here?" He waved his hand at the factory and shook his head.

"It was a number of factors. They all got in the way and kept backup from getting to Detective Saverem when he called for it. My team was first to arrive and even we were too late. Our delay was a simple one: the roads were a mess from the chase. There was an accident at one of the major intersections and we couldn't get through. We were sitting still for as long as ten minutes at one point. Other units were too far away or involved in the accident. Hale Beach is so much smaller than the JCPD; they can't be blamed for not having the resources to handle a high-speed chase like that."

Evergreen shook his head again. "It's a pity. A damn pity. I've always thought Saverem was a good cop. Detective, I won't lie to you: this is ugly and getting uglier. And I don't just mean today. I spoke to Bennigan and he reports that you're romantically involved with one of the witnesses and that your personal property has been damaged. Now your partner has been targeted? And all this shortly after a press conference—"

"That I didn't want to do," Wolfwood cut in with a lashing tone of voice.

Evergreen's expression flickered with what could have almost been a glare, but it went away a moment later. "Bear with me for a minute here. I'm not the only one that's concerned."

"There's no reason for concern, Commissioner. We're closer to getting a suspect than ever."

"Yes, and in such a short amount of time. Your reputation doesn't lie." His tone of voice packed so many hidden meanings into the sentence that Wolfwood found he had nothing to say. Evergreen continued. "Tell me: what are we supposed to think? The problem is that nobody knows what happened three years ago. You caught a man—a rapist and a murderer—that nobody else could catch. Nobody knows how you did it because you and your partner have refused to talk about it. And _because_ nobody knows, we wonder. If you just talked, it would probably put an end to all the rumors and gossip. But you won't so what are we left to do?"

"With all due respect, is this conversation over? I have a crime scene—three in fact—that I should be—"

"You'll stay right where you are and hear me out. You owe me that, at least."

The stony face he received in answer to that would have warned most men to be quiet and back away. Evergreen wouldn't budge.

"We speculate and guess using what we _do_ know. Any why? Because you turn the color of a sheet whenever someone says 'Leatherman'. Because you were in the hospital after the arrest and apparently have a nasty collection of scars you don't like to talk about. Because a man who used to love the camera now does everything in his power to avoid it. Because some very powerful strings were pulled so that you didn't have to testify at his trial and the testimony your partner gave is full of problematic holes. I look at all these things and I put the pieces together and I don't like what I see. I get a very nasty picture in my mind of how you managed to catch Leatherman when no one else could. But if you're planning on pulling that trick again, you'll find yourself on a very short leash. I've disregarded the evidence up till now, but with these personal attacks on your property and friends, I'm beginning to wonder. I'm pretty sure your record doesn't need two suspicious incidents, both within a few years of each other."

Wolfwood stared down at his hands, his temper hitting new peaks. He could hear words of warning from a very familiar, know-it-all voice telling him the dangers of punching superior officers. He could hear _Vash_, too, telling him to control his temper. He took a deep breath.

"When your department had me brought out here, I was led to believe it was because your district was desperate. That you wanted to stop Picasso by any means necessary. Now you're telling me…what _are_ you telling me?"

"I'm telling you to watch your ass. You don't want to make enemies out of friends. Wrap this up, detective. My department has had enough embarrassments from this case to last a lifetime. We'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't give us any reason to doubt you."

Wolfwood looked up slowly and smiled at him, but it was a twisted thing. "Commissioner, you and Bennigan can take your—"

"Detective!" a voice said, cutting off whatever Wolfwood had been about to say, which was probably for the best. Both men turned to see Midvalley running towards them. "There's a call on the radio for you," he said breathlessly. "I think you better take it."

Wolfwood thanked the officer, gave a cold nod to the commissioner and stormed away. He took the call and a minute later, after a hurried exchange with Midvalley, he was driving off. Evergreen watched him go, his eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses.

The mood of the scene lightened ever so slightly and many people breathed in relief. The search continued, without the lead detective, and the officers were grateful for the respite from his anger, but worried about the people unlucky enough to be wherever he was going.

* * *

This wasn't his department. It certainly wasn't his station. This wasn't even his jurisdiction, but you couldn't tell from watching him move. No, wait. He didn't move: he stormed. Doors flew open before him as if smashed by a battering ram. He walked through them, tie blown back and black suit jacket billowing behind him. This brought new meaning to expressions that ended with, "like he owned the place." 

Men and women slid discretely out of his path. Those that couldn't plastered themselves against walls. When he made it to a simple door with the words "Interview in Progress, Do Not Disturb" written on a sign dangling from it, it didn't appear as if even that would stop him.

Only the football player the Hale Beach Central department called 'chief' made him stop. He was a brown-skinned man with a bristly mustache and sharp eyes. "Detective," he said and stepped in Wolfwood's way.

"Chief Osmond," Wolfwood greeted back and made to move around him.

"Now hold on, hold on!" Osmond said and held up his hands like a man about to either make a very good argument or beg. "I know it's your case and I know you're upset..."

"Then you don't know the half of it, chief." At the half angry, half fearful glint in the other man's eye, Wolfwood gave in. "I promise not to do anything...violent. I'll be a saint. But I don't have to remind you that Hale Beach is cooperating with _me_ and that this is my suspect, do I?"

Osmond gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "No, you don't have to remind me so long as I don't have to remind _you_ how many rookie badges I've got in my desk just gathering dust. You're not invincible, detective. Best you remember that."

Wolfwood shoved past him and placed his hand on the door. "I'll keep it in mind."

Inside the room was a small, square table with a single cup of coffee on its rough surface. Two officers stood by the door looking silent and grim. Also in the room and looking more comfortable in her civies than the guards in their uniforms was a stately dark haired woman, Detective Eileen Pasina. With one of the lead detectives in the hospital in unknown condition and the other wrapped up with the crime scenes and all the duties they entailed, Pasina was left to take care of other particulars of the investigation. Across from her, the suspect sat looking sullen and uncooperative. Pasina looked up in surprise when the door opened but the suspect didn't even turn around.

"Detective Pasina," Wolfwood said in a voice that sent prickles up her neck. She stood with a start and gave him a cautious greeting in reply. When she didn't say anything beyond that, Wolfwood added, "Thank you for your work today. Your team did a good job at the Good Rest and later on at the Inn. I appreciate it."

She nodded again but it was tense. Her whole body was tense.

"I also want to thank you for handling the arrest and the forms. But I can take it from here. I'll need a minute alone with her," Wolfwood said abruptly. At first Pasina only shook her head, then she seemed to remember how to speak. "N-no detective. I don't think that's such a good idea." She spoke with a rolling accent that sounded even heavier than normal as if she was too distraught to control it.

"Oh, you don't?"

"No. Sir."

"Detective?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You know I have jurisdiction here. My case, my suspect, my orders." He waited a second then said, "Please leave."

She had never disobeyed an order in her life, but she sincerely considered it today. When she finally moved, it was with hesitant steps. She kept turning to look over her shoulder.

"Officers, you're also excused." The two stoic guards were more eager to leave than Pasina had been.

After the door closed behind them and Pasina, Wolfwood was left alone with the woman named Dominique. She looked very different from how he had first seen her that morning at the Southern Inn and Lodge. Then she had looked so confident and in control. Now she looked like a woman not entirely sure of what she had done or what harm it would bring her. Honestly, Wolfwood had no doubt in his mind that she was only thinking about herself at this point. He moved to stand across the table from her.

"My name is Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood of the JCPD. In case you're wondering, I'm the one responsible for your arrest. Now, do you know why you're here?"

She sniffed a bit and pushed her dark hair from her face. "Fuck you. I'll tell you like I told _Consuela_: I want a lawyer."

"Her name is 'Detective Pasina' and I advise you to keep that in mind. As for a lawyer, don't worry: if you don't have one, the court can provide one for you, but that's much later on down the line." He smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "Do. You. Know. Why. You're. Here?"

She still refused to answer and now she stared down at the abandoned cup of coffee on the table. "No?" Wolfwood inquired. "Then do you know the meaning of the words 'aiding and abetting'? No? Then I'll tell you." Saying that, he lifted the chair Pasina had abandoned, relished how her eyes widened in fear. But all he did was swirl it around so that the back faced the table, slamming it back onto the ground loudly enough to make her jump. He straddled it with a smug look on his face, draped his long arms across the back, and hunched over like a vulture.

"Today," he began icily, "you alerted a man wanted in connection to at least sixteen homicides that the police were looking for him. And _thanks_ to you, he fled the scene and two civilians and four officers were injured. I just got a call that might interest you. One of those officers, Sean Douglas, is in critical condition." He added in what was almost a hiss, "Internal bleeding. Your friend mowed him down. Officer Douglas has four brothers, two sisters, and seven nieces and nephews. If you'd like, you can explain to them why you did what you did."

Her eyes wandered everywhere but never met his.

"Then there's Officer Harvey Lewis, injured while in pursuit of the suspect. Head wounds and whiplash. Officer Brian Mahoney suffered the same, but he hasn't regained consciousness yet. Officer Mahoney has a newborn named Peter."

Wolfwood didn't really care when he saw a single tear slide down her nose and splash onto the table. It was worthless, cheap, and far, far too late. Her tears would never pay for what she had done.

"Then there's Detective Vash Saverem. He was found beaten, unconscious, and hanging by his wrists in an abandoned factory." He had to stop there while he swallowed the thick, vile taste in his mouth.

It was a moment and then she stuttered, "I…I don't care. I want to talk to a lawyer."

His chair crashed into the wall behind him, pieces falling off where it hit. Dominique cried out and then gave a strangled gasp. She tried to stand to run away but only fell backwards in the chair. She crawled like a crab away from him and only came to a halt when her back was against the far wall. He loomed over her, his eyes alive with something not quite normal.

"You should care. He's my partner."

He heard the door open behind him, but didn't care. He crouched down until his face was level with hers. The fear in her eyes was like the burning of a fire, it warmed him, sent heat like a flare up his neck. "You _should_ care," he whispered. "And I'll make sure that you do. I'll make it so that, even if they ever let you out of prison, you'll never be able to forget what you did to him. You'll never forget his name. But you'll never deserve to say it."

He stood again and walked out without acknowledging Pasina or Osmond. He didn't even care about the looks of shock and alarm on their faces.

He had somewhere to go.

* * *

It was raining, and wasn't that just fitting. It slid down the window of Midvalley's squad car leaving streaks of clean in the grime. In the blurred, pixel-like view through the beads of water, traffic lights, headlights, taillights all looked like fireworks. Wolfwood wiped at his face and sped through a red light. The flashing of red distorted and fragmented by the rain might have been beautiful if he had given a damn to think about them. Horns screamed and cursed at him but they might as well have been the sound of cat paws across cotton. 

He was too far into the city now to see the coast. Now there were only skyscrapers towering over other skyscrapers until the sky was blotted out with them.

Now he wasn't thinking about anything outside of the pale man who he had watched disappear into the back of that steel cage on wheels. He wasn't even truly appreciative of the other officers—of Midvalley in particular—who had handed over the keys to his squad car and taken over the scene when Wolfwood tore away from it to go to the police station so many hours ago. Midvalley had behaved admirably, as if he was more than just a patrolman. Maybe he had secret ambitions to be a detective. Wolfwood had no idea.

So he drove through the puddles and tried to ignore the distorted lights and the day that grew darker in the slow, plodding way of summer days. His only companions were his memories and his feelings of failure. _Boo-hoo, poor me, how miserable_, he snarled at himself and lit another cigarette. He couldn't even pity himself.

He arrived.

The hospital looked like hospitals are supposed to. It could have been in a bad television medical drama. The carpet was a geometric nightmare like a math textbook had vomited. The glass surrounding the receptionist counter was smudged with handprints. A gurgle came from the left where a large water dispenser sat, crowded in by a trashcan overflowing with the bodies of oddly shaped paper cups. Just another hospital emergency room with bad art on the walls and old magazines on the tables. No hospital waiting room had ever made anyone feel better.

He stepped inside and the automatic doors slid closed behind him. He knew well enough to know that yelling at the lady behind the desk wasn't going to get him in to see his partner any sooner. No, but maybe his badge would do that just fine.

"Oh...Officer," said the lady behind the counter. Maybe she was new, or maybe cops didn't come through here often because she looked spooked. Wolfwood wondered if it was maybe just him. He tended to have that affect on people.

"Detective," he corrected.

So she told him all the things that receptionists are supposed to tell the worried visitors who come to emergency rooms and expect the world to stop for them. The patient had been admitted, the doctor on duty had seen to him, and they'd tell him more when they had more to tell him. And if you would please have a seat over _there_ we'll be with you in a moment. _Thank you_.

So much for his damn badge.

So he sat down. Then he stood and paced. Then he sat again. He hated waiting. What he hated more than anything was the feeling of powerlessness that was thriving inside him. Waiting let him feel acutely because there was nothing else to do. His heart beat a frightened rhythm, his hands shook. He knew this feeling very well but that didn't mean he was any more use to it than he ever had been.

The waiting room was filled with people who he knew must be just as nervous and afraid as he was, but he couldn't bring himself to care about them.

Eventually, after a miniature lifetime, a stout nurse with a stethoscope around her neck came from one of the mystery doors beside the receptionist's desk. She approached him and whispered while she spoke. He felt his heart jump. And in a second he had a million thoughts like riding a dozen roller coasters in a day and losing all the details in the frenzy and rush.

He tore past her and through the swinging door, only one word in his mind and he wasn't sure even _he_ deserved to say it.

"Wait! Sir!" the nurse hollered after him. But he didn't stop and nothing could have made him.

* * *

His nurse was nice. Her name was Lina. Her nametag said so. She was a tiny little thing with short hair and a sweet laugh. She was a no-nonsense kind of woman, too, because all too soon she was standing before him with a needle in one hand and a bottle of something that stung in the other. She sat down the tools of her trade, peeled off the bandage that had been slapped on his forehead when he was first rushed in, and clicked her tongue at the mess. Then she sat to it and chatted the entire time she worked, which left _his_ mind free to wander. 

He knew, as everyone in the hospital probably knew, that his partner was currently a mess of nerves and paranoia that took the shape of anger and impatience. The difference between Vash and the rest of the hospital was that he had no proof to explain how he knew. He just _knew_. Because it's what Wolfwood would do. It's who he was.

It was as easy as closing his eyes while the needle tugged at his forehead. He could see it: Wolfwood pacing like a caged panther, demanding to be allowed in to visit his partner. Every few minutes, he would snarl at the receptionist.

Ever since he had awakened with a headache worthy of a WWF wrestler who just got beaned with a chair, Vash had known that Wolfwood had come for him, that he was here now, and that he had no idea what to say to him. Because his lips were still bruised, his skin felt like it burned where he had been touched, and the memory of it all made him squirm inside his own skin uncomfortably.

He had made a mistake. He hadn't thought, hadn't thought, hadn't thought. But beating himself up didn't change what was. There was no way out of seeing his partner, no way out of telling him things he'd rather not. And wasn't it just unfair that even the chance of stalling was taken away from him when the door opened silently save for a single _click_.

Wolfwood stepped inside. Behind him was an apologetic looking, chubby nurse with a nervous smile. She and Lina exchanged a meaningful pair of looks, the former's seeming to say, "I'm sorry, but _you_ try telling him 'no'." The nurse in the door slinked away and Lina was left to stare at the two men who hadn't moved or even appeared to breathe in over a minute. She looked from one to the other and then raised an eyebrow. She snipped away the end of the stitching, nodded as if it would due for now and then packed up and turned away.

"Detective," she greeted Wolfwood and then soundlessly left them alone. The door gave a final _click_. Vash found himself quite incapable of speaking and so he just looked.

Wolfwood looked bad, as if his face had aged in a day. Vash guessed he didn't look much better with the stiches on his forehead and bandages around his wrists. A quick look down showed him that his chest was bruised with a fat band from the seatbelt and that his shirt was ripped, bloodied, and stained. But at least what ailed him could be fixed, he reasoned. Wolfwood on the other hand...

And it was just silly, he thought, that all they did was stare at each other when there were countless things to say. It was a strange relief when he finally forced himself to speak.

"Guess I was knocked out for awhile?"

"Yes," Wolfwood said hoarsely.

"They told you when I woke up?"

"They knew they had better."

Vash felt a splash of heat creep up his face. He coughed and looked down. "So, do third-year detectives get to make rookie mistakes?"

The corner of Wolfwood's mouth quirked up. "I guess so." He waited a heartbeat and then added, "You've seen your fair share of mine."

As he always did when things got hard, Vash took to prattling. "I don't know about that. But I guess it's good to hear you say it. Because I made a lot of them today. I waltzed right in there, Nick. You should have seen it. That place...have you seen the movie 'Enemy at the Gates'?"

"You know I haven't."

"Yeah, but you _should_. There's this scene in a department store. There's a sniper and there are a million hiding places and they can't even see where he is. It felt just like that. Turns out he was right behind me. He got me on the head with a Louisville Slugger."

"You'd be in a coma if it was a Slugger."

"It _felt_ like a Slugger."

Wolfwood rubbed at his face. "How do you feel now?"

"Like I got hit with a Louisville Slugger."

"Funny."

And then the silence was back. Wolfwood didn't have to say anything for Vash to understand what he felt; his face was a simple enough story to read. He felt guilty, that was in his eyes. And he was repeating to himself over and over that he hadn't gotten there in time and had put Vash in danger, something he was feeling uncommonly good at. He was thinking about the past and wondering how many times they'd be doomed to repeat it.

As for Vash, his face was as simultaneously easy and difficult for Wolfwood to understand as ever. He was still his joker of a partner, laughing and making with the wisecracks even when he had a purple and red coke can-sized splatter of pain across his forehead with roadmap stitching down the center. And as always, he was still a mystery who said one thing but meant another—the giant walking wound of a man who had long given up on being understood since no one ever had before. Only now Wolfwood felt, for maybe the first time, that Vash was more than just the one in pain, that maybe he was the one with secrets. He didn't like the feeling.

He didn't like most of what was happening. And how dare Picasso fuck with him like _this_? In such a simple, hateful, brilliantly effective way? First Milly, then his car. And now...

"If he wants me off the case," he said suddenly and it was his turn to look down like a shy schoolboy, "he wins. I'm done. Someone else can have it. It's...too much."

Vash gaped at him, mouth hanging open. This was the most Wolfwood had ever said about…anything. About any of the things that mattered and never got said, and got tired and old, and were eventually forgotten because it was simply easier. Somehow, Vash realized, he wasn't ready to hear them.

He closed his mouth with a loud clatter of teeth. "I...no," he whispered.

"No?"

"No. Because that won't make him stop. He doesn't want you off the case. He wants _you_."

Wolfwood's body went rigid. "What?"

"He..." The rest came out as a murmur, but one Wolfwood still heard. His blood turned to ice and then to fire.

"He _what?_"

"You heard me." His tone wasn't petulant. Instead, it was almost embarrassed.

Wolfwood's hands clenched in his pockets and as he tried to breathe, he took the time to really look at Vash and see the proof. His lips were bruised and swollen. It looked as if they had been bitten into viciously by someone who only cared about what they wanted and how much and how hard and how raw they wanted it. A kiss that hadn't been about pleasure as kisses should be. A kiss that had been about power. There were marks on Vash's neck, like someone had pushed him back against that fence and held him still while they...

"He kissed you," Wolfwood said in a voice that most would call dangerous.

Vash nodded but it was a small thing. "He told me to deliver a message. To Chapel."

It seemed to be a day made of uncomfortable spans of time where nothing could be said until, finally, words clawed their way out. "...And what was the message?" Wolfwood asked and it was obvious that the calm he affected was just that. The color had left his face, his dark eyes looked like pain in a sea of white.

"The kiss _was_ the message. He said it was for...him. For you."

"What you're telling me is that Blondie knows—"

"It wasn't Blondie," Vash answered quickly. "Don't look at me like that. I know what I'm saying."

Wolfwood gestured pleadingly. "Then you're going to have to _back up_ what you're saying. You chased a suspect into a random building—"

"That building wasn't 'random.' He knew it. He was running to somewhere...maybe even some_one_ who would protect him. Blondie was panicking; you should have seen his eyes. You should have seen the way he _drove_. All he wanted was to get away. But the man who...did that to me, he acted like he had all the time in the world. And he was fearless. I don't think he believes anyone can catch him."

Wolfwood's expression was a storm about to break.

Vash continued, "I can't believe it was a trap. There were too many things that no one could plan like Ramsey tripping in the alley or Lewis' squad car crashing in the intersection. So it wasn't that," he said on a whisper, thinking aloud. "It was more like...he saw an opportunity and he took it."

"An opportunity to do what?"

"I told you!" Vash snapped and looked surprised at his own outburst and what was at the heart of it. "Don't you get it? He did it to get to _you_. He saw an opportunity to, to...deliver his damn message and he couldn't pass it up. To let you know that he's out there and knows who you are and what you've done and what will get to you and make you slip up, make a mistake so that he can—"

"Vash."

He quieted instantly. For a moment, he looked down in defeat, but then his sharp eyes returned to Wolfwood's in challenge. The pair stared at each other across the space of the room, which wasn't so very far apart, but somehow it was filled with obstacles that kept them where they were.

"Okay," Wolfwood said on a sigh. "I see what you're saying, and I trust you. I wasn't there so I'm gonna have to. But what you're telling me? That's just instinct. Yours are good. The best. But that doesn't change the fact that you chased a subject into a building—alone, with poor coverage and no good defensible position—and got attacked. There is no evidence—so far—to indicate more than a single attacker. And you weigh next to nothing. Hell, _I _can pick you up," he said, finishing the sentence with an odd expression, but pushing past it to continue. "Someone with experience can get a person into that position alone. If you chased a single target, were attacked by a single target...Vash, one plus one..."

"Yeah, _partner_," Vash interrupted and tried to stand, only to fall back. "They equal _two_," he said weakly.

Wolfwood rushed forward to help, but Vash waved him away. "Think," the blonde demanded. "Just _think_." So Wolfwood did. He froze. "Two," he said. "Two hotels."

Vash nodded. "Yes. And two mystery people involved in Kelly Morgan's vacation pictures: Blondie in the background, and someone to actually _take_ the photos. And I don't care what you say about how much I weigh. Crucifying a person is _not _easy for one person to do. Ask the Romans," Vash tried for a joke, but it fell flat because his audience was lost in thought.

Wolfwood looked more than a little blown away, but his tone was still skeptical. "You're telling me that you think we're dealing with more than one person here?"

"I know how it sounds. I know what the profiler said about him being a loner. But I've thought about this. If there are two of them, that would explain the differences, why some of the murders are so gruesome, but the rest of them are so subtle, like Kelly's. You've noticed it too, I know you have. It would explain how one man who works at a hotel in another _state_ has the ability to keep his eyes on women who all kept different hours. Come on: some of the victims were waitresses at cafés that closed at five in the afternoon. Kelly danced at a club all night." Vash's eyes were begging for Wolfwood to listen and consider what he was saying, almost as if he feared what would happen if he didn't.

"We've made a mistake in how we approached this," he said. "We've been looking for one man. We should have been looking for two."

To Be Continued...

Much love and a Happy New Year to all the readers and reviews out there. Yes, I deliberately wrote the first scene in such a way that you couldn't tell if Vash was alive or not. Yes, I'm evil. Favorite line in the chapter:

"They told you when I woke up?"

"They knew they had better."

Somehow, that's really kind of macho-romantic. Like something out of "Tango and Cash", a bad but infinitely slashy movie. Anyway! Sorry about Commissioner Evergreen's magical, random appearance. Just call him "Commissioner Belated Exposition." He's literally in this chapter because the "Parlor Scene" is on the way where the writer will reveal everything about the Leatherman case. I wanted to give you guys a chance to put the mystery together before then so that when you actually read it you can say, "Ah, ha! I KNEW it!" So Evergreen is only here to drop hints and it shows, but...whatever.

By the way, the "Up Next" from last chapter was completely, completely wrong. That got pushed to next chapter. Sorry! Thanks again!

Up Next...? What haunts him...


	17. Santa Rosa

Author's Note: On geography. While set in a place disturbingly similar to America, the country where Vash and Wolfwood live in "needful" has several important differences. Vash and Wolfwood work in the west in a city called "July" that is only a short distance from the water. If this country were exactly like America, they would be in California. But Wolfwood has complained about the typhoons and other extreme weather conditions (hot and cold) in July, which maybe sounds more like an eastern American state. Or possibly even Midwestern. Additionally, he has described his former beat out east as having surf, sand, palm trees and hot babes. We can assume his hometown greatly resembles California; only it's on the east coast. Essentially, the climates of the two coasts of America are almost switched in this story. Despite these discrepancies, you wouldn't be incorrect in thinking of July and its surrounding country as a strange, AU America. After all, they celebrate the Fourth of July. Woo-hoo.

Warnings: Adult language, adult situations, disturbing sexual content, homosexual themes, out of character behavior. Not beta-read. Spelling and grammar were treated like bad stepchildren and thrown out the door with the cat. Worse than ever in this one, folks.

* * *

Part XXIX: Santa Rosa

* * *

He woke up earlier than usual, padded across the floor, and looked out the window. The early morning before his eyes might as well have been night and the world was hazy blue and black. He stood there for five minutes then turned away. It was but a moment's work for him to dress. 

A few things were thrown into a small bag. His holster was strapped at his side with ease born of repetition. In half an hour, he was ready to go.

The loud honk of a horn outside his window set him across the room and to the door. When he reached it, he stopped, turned and looked at his house as if it were the last time he'd ever see it. He opened the door and stepped through it.

His whole world for the moment was the cab, the airport, and the thousands of miles of ground he had to cover. It was all he let himself think about.

But though he was gone and in the air just a short while later, his absence was felt across the city like a hunger pang, almost immediately. What he had left behind was a city in turmoil. The ripples of his actions before and after leaving washed across the city in waves and then moved on to the next tirelessly.

The July City Government Presses kicked on with a whirr and quickly slurped paper into their grinding, spinning insides and then spat it back out, ink still wet on a picture of a man repeated by the hundreds. By the following morning, no bulletin board would remain unplastered with this poster. No light pole or public mailbox or bank or grocery store or post office would go uncovered. By evening tomorrow, the world would know him.

The same day that the presses were hard at work, somewhere in the city of July, a guy looked up at the ancient bar TV and got the surprise of his life when his numbers matched the winning lottery numbers. He jumped up and down cheering and then kissed the stranger on the bar stool next to him. But after the celebrating in the bar ended and the free drinks were all bought and downed, the news came on. The top story made the bar quiet like a strict teacher shushing a room of middle schoolers. A picture flashed on the screen above a telephone number. The same intent study of regulars and down-on-their-luck newbies was happening at bars across the city. The gang at Lowry's sat down their mugs and stared and then broke into quiet conversation amongst themselves.

And not too far from Lowry's Detective Vash Saverem who still thought of himself as "just a cop" stood in an empty office and stared at a wall that he had helped make, but that he didn't like to look at. Somehow, the pictures were more real to him then ever. Looking at the wounds of the girls in the pictures, he could feel the ones at his wrists and forehead give a sympathetic throb. None of them had deserved what happened to them. It wasn't fair. But they were closer to bringing their killer to justice than ever—Wolfwood and him, together.

He turned and looked at the empty desk across the room and his face formed a strained expression. Empty. Worse, he didn't know how long it was going to stay that way. And he knew where Wolfwood was going, didn't like it, and couldn't do anything to stop it. All he could do was pick up the pieces after he fell apart.

When he left the office, it felt like walking away out of a world that made sense into a world that was simply mad.

A state away, in the Hale Beach Central Police Station, a woman named Dominique couldn't sleep. She sat in the holding cell and stared through the bars at the chubby officer who was supposed to be watching her but was reading a magazine. And though she was worried about her own situation—had plenty of reasons to worry about her own situation—she kept wondering about _him_. She even prayed to a god she had never really believed in—prayed that he had made it out safely.

Across town, dozens of officers combed over an abandoned factory building, photographed everything from scraps of white cloth coated in blood to dusty footprints in the stairway. In a house in a crackerjack box neighborhood, another team of officers walked through the house of a man known only as Ray Hawthorne. Nothing remained untouched, un-documented, un-listed. Fingerprints were treated like golden nuggets in 1849.

A day passed, another day came.

Back in the city of July, life went on. Somewhere a shy kid was about to go on a date, blissfully busy in the business of falling in love. He passed a wall plastered with the same face over and over and didn't really think about it. Somewhere, an old lady in the supermarket was studying the same picture with interest. She shrugged her shoulders and then bought oatmeal. Somewhere a mother was singing to her baby, watching the news and worrying about her daughter in college, hoping that they caught _him_ and caught him soon.

Somewhere, hundreds of people on the street passed by someone that they never looked at twice, but should have.

And somewhere, the man they passed was seething, staring at a house that was empty, just like an office that had been empty. They weren't supposed to be empty. Detective was supposed to be here. He was supposed to have been there for two days. That he hadn't been angered him, disappointed him. Worse, it made him want to hurt something to relieve the fever in his brain. But the one he wanted to hurt was gone.

He looked down at his hands and brought them to his face. He inhaled deeply imagining that he could still smell the other one, the partner who only got in the way. He ran his tongue over the palm, tasting the salt. Yes, the one he wanted was always, always out of reach.

Luckily, substitutes could be found.

* * *

Milly Thompson turned on the television and settled into the most comfortable chair in the apartment that was her "safe house." She still wasn't used to how much firmer it was than her old chair. She wasn't used to this place at all. Sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night and wondered where she was. It had been like that when she first moved to July on a company transfer five years before. July had been louder and bigger and harsher than she had imagined it would be. After awhile, she had liked to think she had gotten used to it all. But maybe she didn't belong in a city like this. She was a small town girl at heart. 

Her routine at the safe house was unchanging and filled with paranoia, most of it not on her own part. Her boss called on occasion and asked how she was. He told her how happy he would be when the investigation ended and she could come back to work fulltime. By his stressed-out, tired tone of voice, she believed he was telling the truth. She was getting to know the police officers that paraded in and out of her life far, far too well. Officer "Just call me Earl" had gone on for an hour yesterday about his marital problems and then burst into tears. She didn't think that was normal police behavior. But he had thanked her for being there to listen to him, which made her feel a little better about the Twilight Zone nature of her life. The officers were all so kind and so worried on her behalf, but they made her worries worse in how they double-checked and triple-secured everything.

Nick hadn't been to see her in a long time. In some ways, it was a relief. He was so tied to everything that frightened her—the terrifying thought of what she had barely been saved from—that seeing him brought it all to the surface again. Other times, she just wanted to talk to him again. Even when danger seemed to hound him, she had felt safe with him when the dark alone had been enough to frighten her.

The television was a comfort. Her oldest brother had always called their family's small TV the "idiot box" and sneered at people who got too wrapped up with it. For a long time, Milly had adopted his opinion, but then years of living by herself had changed that. Television could happily suck the hours away when you had no one to share them with. Now more than ever the television was a fine friend. Today was another day when the television proved its worth. She flipped aimlessly past commercials for five minutes before settling on a documentary about the life cycle of otters. And when that ended, a game show took its place. Then came the talk shows back to back to back. By the time the evening news came on, she didn't really know how long she'd been sitting there.

It was only when something worth noticing caught her attention that she realized most of what she had seen today had never actually sunk in. She had been like a zombie, just sitting there with her eyes open and her mind shut off. The idiot box had taken over and her brother was proven right. But now she was awake.

What had finally made her sit up and truly watch was the name "Picasso" said so casually by the anchorwoman. That name made Milly's mind and skin feel like they were crawling backwards to get away from it.

And then there was a photograph of a man on the screen and the reporters were voiced-over, talking about a reward and a hotline that people should call with information. The man's face made her rub her tired eyes and lean forward.

She stared wide-eyed at a face that would soon be notorious across the country and whispered in a disbelieving voice, "Mr. Vash..?"

* * *

He didn't hate flying. He hated airports. Maybe it was because he saw a million things in them that others missed, like the café employees who cut the lettuce and the beef with the same knife. Then there was the vegan in the hemp necklace who didn't notice. He saw the lost children and the confused grandmothers and the foreign travelers who couldn't read the signs and were too unsure about their English to ask the airline employees. He saw the gum stuck to seats and the mass of people streaming in to use bathrooms that were only cleaned every other hour—if that. He saw the gang tattoos and the suicide scars and the infected pierces of the Goths and the bleeding fingers of the nervous nail biters. He saw the pickpockets and the drug addicts and the drunks and the scam artists. It was the detective in him. 

He saw it all and couldn't do a thing. He was just another guy with a suitcase and a ticket.

He got on the plane, dreading it already and in detail thanks to what felt like a lifetime of flitting about the country in the damn things.

No matter how short the flight would be, it was the taxi to the airport, the wait for boarding, the wait after boarding, the videos about masks dropping from the ceiling and inflatable seat cushions, the connecting flight—those awful things that piled up and made what could have been an easy trip into a nightmare.

The flight was bumpy. Even the connecting flight three hours later was bumpy. And outside the tiny window he watched morning waste away to afternoon and afternoon start to fade into evening. He thought of Vash.

Leaving him alone was a mistake. Not leaving him would be a bigger one. He knew how irresponsible he appeared to the rest of the force for suddenly disappearing at a critical moment in the case. Especially when they had an accessory in the hold, a manhunt in full swing, and four crime scenes to investigate, all of them in another state. As lead detective, it was his job to organize all of this and oversee all the operations. But in the end, he had handed the reigns over to Vash and Pasina. With the cooperation of chief Osmond from Hale Beach, he had faith that the two of them could handle things in his absence.

True, Vash wasn't in the best condition to be doing anything besides resting and enjoying excessive police protection, but there was nobody with more experience and knowledge in regards to the investigation and no one else that he trusted to head it.

Vash had complained and grumbled about the protection and the precautions until Wolfwood had almost considered giving in and letting him return to work without them. _Almost _considered. After a lot of arguing and a round of paper-rock-scissors, Vash had been given no choice outside of cooperating. If he wanted to continue working on the case, he had to continue working on the case with a few restrictions on his movements and actions.

But all of it failed to set Wolfwood's mind at ease. There was still too much that could go wrong. What if Picasso went after Vash again while he was gone? What if he..?

He thought himself in circles and suddenly noticed that he was sinking further and further into his uncomfortable airline seat as if it were made of the softest cotton. His eyelids were drooping, his head lulling to the side. Despite a hard jerk of the plane strong enough to send the flight attendant into the lap of a very happy looking old letch, Wolfwood's eyes wouldn't stay open. They drifted closed and...

_Vash was crucified before him, once again. This time, he was high in the air, far out of reach in the darkened room, and thick nails pierced the palms of his hands and his feet. The blood dripped down like a waterfall. Wolfwood watched from far away as someone approached Vash and then stopped beneath him. His face was hidden, but Wolfwood could see that he was tall, bulky from muscle, and walked with ease and grace. A predator._

_The tall figure lifted a hand and then another. Claws sprang from his fingers, as sharp as daggers, and then he was climbing the wall where Vash hung. Like a beast he worked until his climbing brought him face to face with Vash. He freed one of his clawed hands from the wall, reached towards Vash, grabbed at something and then pulled. Wolfwood felt himself try to scream, but there was no noise here._

_The tatters of Vash's shirt fell away, turned to feathers and then floated through the air. Exposed as he was, Wolfwood could see Vash's body and rebelled against what he saw, knew that it wasn't true, that it was a trick of his mind. His skin was covered in marks, deep marks like the kind a whip leaves. These were scars that weren't really there, not on Vash._

_Vash's tormenter trailed his long nails over Vash's torso and then violently grabbed his chin. He stared into Vash's eyes for a pregnant moment, but his face remained hidden. _

_"Chapel," he said, and the silence shattered, "why would you hide from me? This is for _you_. Everything is." He leaned forward and his lips met Vash's._

_And then Wolfwood was being kissed and the pain in his hands and feet was horrible. His blood was hot where it flowed from them. He couldn't breath as he was, stretched out like Jesus in an icon painting. There was leather around his neck and leather around his wrists and leather everywhere and he couldn't move. The kiss wouldn't end. He could feel his life being sucked out of him as surely as blood poured from his hands and feet._

_Then someone screamed and the kiss was broken, but not before teeth sunk into his lips and then pulled away violently as the stranger turned towards the sound. _

_"Oh, it's you," he said to the new arrival._

_Wolfwood looked down through pain-hazed eyes and Vash was there, holding a gun that shook in his hands. "Don't make me," Vash said. "I'm taking him and we're leaving."_

_"No," came the reply. "This one is mine. He wants to be mine. Can't you see? He likes this. He craves what you can't give him."_

_"I'm warning you..." _

_The air was suddenly filled with feathers; black ones twisting through the air and clouding it like smoke. The sound of a bullet broke through the dark space followed by the sound of a body smashing to the ground._

_"Vash!" Wolfwood screamed..._

and jerked awake when the plane landed.

He looked around him groggily, unsure for a moment where he was or where he was going. The people in the aisle across from him were staring at him strangely and he wondered exactly how bad his reaction to the nightmare had been. Nothing to do about it now, he realized, but play it off. He gave them an apologetic smile, which wasn't returned, and then rubbed at his face while the flight attendants did their little routine song and dance all around the plane.

"Be careful when removing your luggage from the overhead compartment as the contents may have shifted during the flight…"

He wasn't the kind of guy to believe in the power of dream interpretation. He thought the loonies that looked at tarot cards should have some sense slapped into them. Nevertheless, from a dream like that, even he could take a hint. Leatherman and Picasso had somehow gotten tangled up together in his mind, and he was having difficulty keeping them separate. The oddly familiar way that Vash had been bound wasn't helping him eliminate the confusion, either. His dream was proof of that. And his suspicions about what exactly Picasso knew and how he knew it...

He wanted the whole business done and over with now.

Wolfwood shuffled out of the stuffy cabin with the other weary travelers feeling more tired than he had felt before dozing off. He looked around: just another airport, just on the other side of the country. God he hated them.

The only rental car he could find on short notice was a crappy convertible with a top that jammed. The lady behind the counter, Debbie, looked so sincere when she apologized that Wolfwood forgave her and kept the grumbling to himself. He threw his bag in the back and took off.

Back out east for the first time in over a year and a half, he took to the roads with a sense of pleasant nostalgia. In the broken convertible, which was currently stuck in the down position, he could appreciate the cooler weather and wide-open expanses of nature that July just didn't have. He could only hope it didn't rain. The good thing was that the fresh air seemed to clear his mind, like opening a window in a musty house. He could even shake the case of nerves the nightmare had given him.

The drive from the airport to his hotel took time. He had over two hours on the highways stretching from one little town to the next. Hours to think and worry and glance at his cell phone nervously as if he expected it to ring. When the city finally shot into the sky before him, he felt a little something in him tug, half in anxiety half in celebration. This was a city so unlike July that he sometimes doubted they were really in the same country at all.

When he finally arrived at his hotel in the creeping evening hours, he smelled like the outdoors thanks to the long drive with the top down. His hair was windblown into artful disarray, giving him a wild look. He tried to smooth it, but gave up after a minute when he realized that all he was doing was make it worse.

Everything was handled so smoothly, he barely even registered receiving his key at the front desk. A long elevator ride later and he was in his hotel room. Like the airport, this was a hotel room that looked like hotel rooms are supposed to. There was even a blurry landscape on the wall with a charming gate leading to a quaint cottage. He looked out at the window, just as he had that morning. Hours before, a world away. But this time, it was not his yard he saw outside. Now he stared out at a city he hadn't seen in over a year and a half.

It could have been a model for a movie or a painting: the perfect skyline of a city lining a bay that swept out and swelled into an ocean. Towers punctuated by sharp squares of light in patterns that repeated and then shifted as one went off and another blocks away switched on to take its place. Down there, far below his common hotel room, people were running around living their lives and just barely getting by. People were murdering and raping and stealing and lying. Far, far down there, People were making love, cooking, singing, watching movies and painting.

But from up here, all he saw were the lights.

May City, home sweet home.

* * *

He awoke early. Bad dreams tossed him out of bed before the sun was up. He couldn't see any sense in trying to get back to sleep, so he started his day, already grumpy and weary. Hotels were always a problem for him; they tended to throw everything into confusion. Nothing was where you wanted it to be, the lightning was suspiciously dim—like they were hiding things like stains or worse—and you couldn't really trust the towels. He shook his head at himself in the mirror. Now wasn't the time to be picky. 

He grabbed a quick meal from the "complimentary continental breakfast" and was back on the open road before the chickens were awake enough to crow. Map on the seat beside him, he was ready.

The roads were so empty and the air so crisp that it felt more like a vacation than what it really was: nasty business he'd rather not have to deal with. For that reason, he had a tension filled trip, watching the city behind him fade away in his rear view mirror and give way to countryside. Two hours of nothing but derelict buildings, rolling expanses of farmland and trees that had grown up in the salt air. He couldn't see the ocean now, but he knew it was there, wider and bluer than anything the west coast had to offer. The untouched scenery almost got to him, almost made him relax.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was before him: Santa Rosa. It rose up from the ground like a jagged tooth.

It had been built in 1913 on 532 acres of land by the very prisoners who would live out their lives there. Though it was designed to hold 4,020 inmates, it currently housed more than twice that number. Over four hundred of them were on death row. The rapists, the murderers, the child molesters—here was where they came to rot away.

Wolfwood followed the guards who waved at him lazily and then flagged him into a parking garage that strangely felt like a prison thought it was hardly unique. He exited the car, and moved forward despite every atom in his body telling him to just get in the car and go back.

Santa Rosa was a low, mismatched building; brick in some places and endless concrete in others. When the drab, square structure ended, barbed wire began. What few windows he could see from outside the gate were small and sealed up with solid-looking bars. The building seemed to hum with electricity and the uniformed figures that patrolled around it—on the roof and in the towers stationed here and there—seemed as small as ants from the ground. The front gate was a medieval looking set of doors manned by dozens of guards that Wolfwood could see, and probably dozens more that he couldn't. They all carried heavy rifles that they aimed at him casually, as if the power to kill had blinded them to the distinction between one human and the next. Everyone they saw was just another target.

Inside the gates was just _more_. More guards, more concrete, more barbed wire. It filled his vision like no prison ever had before. It was his mind working against him again, that much he knew. He was too personally connected with this prison and there was too much riding on his visit today. His own mind gave Santa Rosa the façade of a dungeon and turned all the guards into Minotaurs patrolling its corridors.

* * *

"Ah, Detective Wolfwood," a kindly looking older man in a tweed suit said as he approached. Wolfwood, surrounded by sour-faced visitors who had never gotten used to the searches, the questions, the pat-downs, looked up startled from the line. 

The man was accompanied by four guards who looked anxiously around them, eyeing everyone waiting at the gate with suspicion. Wolfwood wondered how it was in a group as large as this, that this man knew his face. He was certain they had never met before.

"Our parking guards told me that you had arrived, so I hurried over to meet you right away. You look surprised that I know you," the older man said as they shook hands. "Believe me, you shouldn't be. I'm the assistant warden, Clive Ferrier. Welcome to Santa Rosa."

Wolfwood waited for Ferrier to explain further how it was that he knew him, but the explanation never came. Instead, Ferrier gestured and led Wolfwood away from the crowd. Wolfwood glanced behind him and noticed that none of the other visitors were being allowed inside. He received quite a few nasty glares—some he reasoned was for the special treatment he was receiving. The rest was probably because they had heard Ferrier call him "Detective."

Ferrier led Wolfwood through several more checkpoints, assured him that he'd get his cell phone and piece back after his visit, and then told him the prison rules.

"If you are taken hostage by a prisoner," a humourless guard said, "we will not negotiate for you release…"

The list went on and only got grimmer. Once every check and necessary communiqué was finally over, Wolfwood found himself inside the grey, echoing oppression of the prison.

"Thank you for the VIP treatment, and on such short notice," he said to Ferrier, trying to ignore the four prison guards who surrounded them, acting as escorts.

"Oh, it's not a problem. Your coming has certainly shaken things up around here! We were very surprised to receive your message. Even more surprised to find out you'd be visiting us today. Honestly, three of our more _illustrious_ inmates are here thanks to you. The warden and I just assumed we'd never get to meet you. Not to be dark, but if I were you, I'd never come here."

Wolfwood wasn't exactly sure what to think of that, more or less what to say. "I probably never would have, to be honest. If it weren't for the fact that one of my current cases requires it, I might have stayed away forever," he admitted.

"Yes, you mentioned this case of yours on the phone. My question is: what kind of answers are you looking for here?"

"Do you know about the Picasso murders?"

"Not much, but I've heard about them. That kind of story gets through these walls, even from across the country. Why?"

"I believe one of your inmates is communicating with Picasso. If that's true, we've got a beautiful lead. But I'll need your cooperation in tracking down the cause and content of what got passed to Picasso. I need to know...anything you can tell me, actually."

Ferrier looked thoughtful and then apologetic. "I see. Well, the truth of the matter is that if _anyone_ has had any questionable communication with the outside, it would be very, very difficult to track down. There are networks here that even a police detective would have a hard time understanding. It's a miniature world, condensed and thriving in its own way. Like a city, it has its own rules. You think you have a grasp of if and then it turns around and bites you. It's the old 'madhouse run by the mad' scenario and I'm not just talking about the inmates."

"Your guards are corrupt?" Wolfwood asked, reading between the lines. He had lowered his voice when he asked, but he still had the laughable feeling that their escorts had heard him anyway, like they were supernatural and somehow sinister in nature.

"You're fast," Ferrier whispered back as if he felt the same. "Yes, I'm afraid that's true. When I find out about some kind of misconduct, I try to punish the guard, but it's finding out that's difficult. Sometimes I'm too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for example, we had a guard named 'Leary' who took certain…liberties with the prisoners. I guess you could say he picked the wrong prisoner this last time. He was beaten half to death with his own billystick. He won't be back at work for quite a long time. If ever."

They rounded a corner. "May I ask who the prisoner was, or am I supposed to guess?"

"Oh, I think you know already."

Wolfwood nodded. "What was the punishment?"

"That's a whole new can of worms and it connects to what I want to tell you. What I should have said over the phone. I know you must be in a hurry to complete your inquiries and return to July, but I wonder if I can't have just a bit of your time? I want to give you an idea of the troubles we face with answering your questions. Let me explain. You should know that Santa Rosa is in the process of being converted to a 'supermax' prison. You're familiar with the term?"

Wolfwood suppressed his disapproving expression. "Yeah. 23 to 24 hour lock down and constant surveillance. Minimal human contact and almost no access to the outside. It's a civil rights nightmare."

"That's true, but our warden, Mr. Grey, was previously warden at the Federal penitentiary in Augusta, a supermax prison notorious for being strict. It was one of the first to adopt the program, you know. He's been working for many years to institute the same procedures he practiced in Augusta here in Santa Rosa. This includes the creation of a new solitary confinement wing. Well, our guards and staff call it 'solitary', but our inmates? They call it 'H-tank'."

They were now in a part of the prison that seemed newer, but that newness did nothing to relieve the hostile air that hung around the place. It was eerily quiet here, more so than any other part of the prison Wolfwood had seen in their walk.

Ferrier came to a sudden halt before a set of tall, barred gates guarded by two expressionless guards. With a wave of his hand, he indicated the sealed opening. "Here it is," he said. "This is H-Tank."

Wolfwood studied the chilling sight before him. The corridor leading away from the door, visible through the barred gate, was dark and silent. The atmosphere was menacing and heavy like the kind at a funeral as the casket was carried away. Down that hallway, hundreds of men were held, locked away from the rest of the world and left to rot. It was almost the same as being dead.

He shook himself out of those thoughts to ask, "The 'H' stands for...?"

"From what I've been told, 'hell'. If it comes from something else, I don't know." With a small nod of his head, he indicated that Wolfwood should follow him. Wolfwood was glad to leave. He was also relieved that Ferrier's explanation hadn't included entering the solitary wing. He didn't think he wanted to see it.

"How are the conditions in the cells?" he asked.

"Deserving of the nickname. Some are better than others, to be fair. But all of them are kept dark. Some of the solitary wing was formed from a section of the original building. That part of the Tank has cells that have always been here that have just been converted. Essentially, we took the old bars away and gave them solid security doors with mechanized locks instead. Those cells even have real beds, even if they don't have many other comforts. The new cells are the problem. These are basically holes in the wall: concrete beds a giant couldn't move."

"These new cells are going to be where all the prisoners are kept twenty-four-seven?"

"No, Mr. Grey has had difficulties getting that approved. For the moment, inmates will spend extended lengths of time there. A few weeks at the most. All the rest of the time, we follow a routine like any other penitentiary. We have communal showers and meals in a cafeteria. Our prisoners take exercise in the yard and have odd jobs around the prison. It isn't our policy to keep prisoners in the Tank permanently. Not yet, anyway. We have had some extreme instances, of course."

"Right. Of course," Wolfwood agreed with distaste.

"As you can probably guess, the punishment for almost beating a guard to death was confinement to one of these cells. For several weeks, I'm afraid. Worse, the inmate who nearly killed Leary is, as you probably know, under psychological treatment and often requires medical attention, which he couldn't receive while in solitary. I don't want to disagree with the warden's regulations, but I can't see how his behavior could be improved by the Tank."

Wolfwood could feel that Ferrier had finally arrived at the point. He came to a halt and waited patiently.

"Detective Wolfwood, it comes down to this: with all these variables—the guards, the Tank and the very prison _system_—from our end, we can't learn much and we can't instigate a full-scale investigation because we're understaffed and under funded. I'm sorry that you wasted an entire trip coming out here, but you seemed so determined to find the answers you were after that I felt nothing outside of showing you could explain how difficult that is. Now I believe I should have tried to dissuade you over the phone. I _am_ sorry."

When Wolfwood said nothing, he continued in an apologetic voice. "Think of the logistics. If a guard is helping him get messages outside, which guard out of hundreds? How? If it happened in the Tank, there aren't any witnesses. And is _he_ going to tell us that he's broken the rules and smuggled out communications? I don't have much experience with him, but I believe he'd deny everything even if we threatened him with the Tank again. I'm sure you know that we can't always trust the rumors we hear or the stories we bribe out of the inmates. They'll say anything you want for a pack of cigarettes and a blind eye turned on their illegal paraphernalia when we toss the cells. There's nothing we can do for you here." He paused for a moment and the conflicted look on his face proved to Wolfwood that he truly was sorry, but that he was earnest in what he said.

"Mr. Ferrier," Wolfwood began, "I appreciate the guided tour and the explanation of how Santa Rosa works, but I can't leave without answers. If I can't get them the easy way, I'll do it the hard way."

He paused for a minute as if the idea in his head was an ugly one and the words to express it even uglier. "Let me talk to him. Maybe he won't tell you anything, but he'll tell me."

Ferrier's eyes widened and his mouth moved soundlessly for several seconds. "Oh, no, no. I really have to refuse your request, Detective," he said finally with a sad shake of his head.

"And I wish I could take that warning and turn around and leave right now, but I can't. My partner's injured, my force is scattered between two cities, and if I can find the fix for it all here, I'm not leaving."

"I _did_ tell you about Leary, didn't I? Did I mention the extent of his injuries? Of course, if I _do _let you see him, you'd be protected and there would be a barrier between you and him, but I really can't account for the damage this will cause. To either of you. I'll ask you to reconsider."

"No."

"And I suppose that if I refuse, you'll throw your weight around and be back tomorrow with an offer I can't refuse?"

"You're a nice guy so I want to say, 'No, I'll behave', but I'd be lying. I will start shit if I have to."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Ferrier sighed, gave Wolfwood a probing look, and then turned and addressed one of the silent guards accompanying them. A few quiet words passed between them and then the guard was walking away, mumbling into his radio.

"Well, let's get this over with," Ferrier said.

"Lead the way," Wolfwood said with a half-smile. He thought he heard the other man mumble "Stubborn" under his breath, but let it go. Ferrier turned on his heels and headed back the way they had come. Wolfwood followed after him at an easy pace and anyone seeing him might have thought he looked calm and controlled. He wasn't.

There was nothing but the stone and plaster on both sides and high above. There were the walkways and stairs all of metal and these rattled when they crossed them. And in the empty places that looked deserted, the echoing footfalls of the party reached Wolfwood's ears, but didn't register any further. Only the bead of sweat trailing down his neck and the oppressive canned air accompanied by the staccato beat of his heart reached him. He cursed himself over and over. He wasn't ready for this, he wasn't ready. But he had no other choice.

There was Milly. There was Vash. Was he going to let them down because he had a few ghosts haunting him that simply wouldn't be exorcised? He had tried to fight it; he had tried to get over it. But his reaction was still the same. He was afraid and about to face the thing—the man—responsible for it all.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Yeah, another lousy cliffhanger. Sorry, I'm a loser. This chapter just got too darn long so I cut the second half. Good news is that I should have what I cut uploaded in a week. Emphasis on 'should', folks. 

Thanks to readers and reviewers alike! Much obliged.

In other news, I created a forum for "needful" for anyone who wants to discuss the fic. No, nobody asked for something like that and probably never wanted something like that, but I'd thought I'd give it a try just in case. If you want, pop on over to the forums and chat it up.

Up next: "I'm sorry, detective, but we warned you."


	18. Reunion

Author's note: Roman numerals are funny. By the time you get into the thirties, everything looks like a porno. Oh, and this chapter is waaaay too long. Sorry.

Warnings: Strong adult language, adult themes, homosexual themes, graphic violence, psychobabble, unexplained supernatural occurrences. Not beta-read since it's too late to change my evil ways now.

* * *

Part XXX: Reunion

* * *

The long trek from H-Tank to their final destination took ten minutes and Wolfwood understood for maybe the first time how expansive the prison really was. He followed Ferrier through the labyrinthine corridors. As disturbing a place as it was, the prison offered the strangest comfort in that everyone they encountered sounded just like him: soft lilting vowels, dropped consonants and lazy drawls greeted him everywhere. And even if it was just cold instructions to stay inside the blue lines it was nice to hear instead of the clipped city speed of July. It was also nice that Ferrier was no longer attempting to talk him out of this. He already had enough to think about. 

_This_ was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made, but part of him knew that it hadn't been a split second one; he had already been resolved about it long before arriving at Santa Rosa. He had known the morning before, staring out his window at the pre-dawn haze, that he would do this.

They arrived at a more modern looking part of the prison sectioned off by a wall made of thick, bulletproof glass divided into long, tall sections. The glass stretched up to the ceiling where fluorescent fixtures glared down at everyone with a light that hurt the eyes.

To the left was a room also enclosed in glass where a heavy-set blonde guard stood before a complex-looking switchboard. All around her, monitors in drab grey and black flashed from cell, to cellblock, to visitor rooms and lounges, and back. One of them showed a wiry man in a prison jumper with wild eyes staring up at the camera, his mouth wide in a scream. Wolfwood was glad that he couldn't hear the sound.

He looked away and concentrated on the area. Ferrier explained that what he was seeing had been sat aside for criminals that required heightened security. The prisoners here were not as isolated as they would be in H-Tank, but it was on its way to being just as strict. Just off of the entrance leading to the cells was the area to where problematic prisoners were restricted if a visitation became unavoidable. The visitation area was as close to the cells as possible: the dangers of transporting one of these men made that a necessity.

Thinking about what was held captive in this place, Wolfwood felt his shoulders tense. His fingers strayed unconsciously to the cross dangling around his neck, then fell away suddenly.

For all that it was efficient and clean; for all that the doors slid open with mechanized ease; there was something about this part of the prison that was medieval. Perhaps it was the thick walls beyond the glass barrier that cushioned sound or the sheer height of them, as if they were built to hold giants. Perhaps it was that it felt colder. Or perhaps it was just his thoughts causing havoc with his peace of mind.

Ferrier came to a halt before a door—made of imposing steel—and held up a hand. Wolfwood stopped before it and waited.

"I would stay, but I have other duties to take care of. The boys will watch out for you," he said, indicating the guards standing near the door. Wolfwood glanced at them and then back at Ferrier. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me. I wish I could explain how disturbing I find this, but..." he shook his head. "Well, never mind. Good luck, Detective."

When he walked away, it was encased in a four-man shield. The guards that had dogged their steps on the tour through the prison now dogged after Ferrier as he left Wolfwood alone.

Wolfwood turned back to the door to face the guards who would be with him from now on, and found one of them looking down at him with an intense expression. He was a large man—a head taller than Wolfwood—with smooth brown skin and a bristly mustache.

"Detective," he said, "the assistant warden is a smart man. If he doesn't like this, I don't either. But an order is an order so I'm going to go in their with you and watch your back. But if you start not liking the situation, you just tell me. I can put a stop to it right away."

He hesitated then added, "I can put a stop to it _now_, too..."

"Thanks, but let's just get this over with."

The concerned guard gestured to the woman in the glass booth. She was busy for a minute and then a grating electronic buzz sounded from the door before Wolfwood. It slid open and clicked into place. The air beyond the door was noticeably colder. It was like walking away from a warm fire and into a blizzard.

There were many doors lining the hallway on either side of Wolfwood. As he passed, he looked through the glass windows and saw rooms divided by glass barriers. Some of them were occupied by stubbled, gruff looking men on one side, and crying women on the other. Many were empty and unused.

The guard paused before a door, unlocked it by sliding a card into a slotted panel on the wall, and ushered Wolfwood inside.

"It'll be a moment," he said and then discreetly slid into the corner behind Wolfwood, a silent but reassuring presence. Wolfwood stared through the thick glass at the door on the other side. He waited.

Less than ten minutes later and it opened, but the mechanized sound of the door unlocking didn't reach him nor did the voices of the guards who escorted Bradley Monev, the serial killer known as Leatherman, into the room.

The guards with Bradley—one at each side and one behind—were obviously angry. The one at the back had a bruise over his eye. The one on the right, an unbelievably fat man whose sweat had stained his uniform, darted nervous glances at Wolfwood and then said something to Bradley that he punctuated by shaking him by both shoulders roughly. Chained at the wrists and surrounded as he was, there was nothing Bradley could do in retaliation; still, his face showed that he would have liked to kill the guard.

He was led to the seat, shoved into it, and then handed the phone. Wolfwood lifted the receiver on his side once the guards on the other had retired to their corners to wait. The guards looked at the pair in the center of the room suspiciously and with frowns that looked permanent. Wolfwood found himself looking back for a moment, his curiosity leading his eyes. He turned away.

"Hello, Bradley," he said in a voice that was surprisingly level.

"Ah, Chapel. You came. You really came," Bradley whispered back hoarsely.

Bradley Monev was not a small man. When Wolfwood had first seen him, over three years ago now, he had thought that he looked like one of those guys in the Mr. Universe pageant: too much muscle packed underneath too little skin. He had dressed to show off his arms and hadn't so much walked as strutted. But his looks had never been handsome. Not really. Or at least not in this century. There was something old-fashioned about his jaw, his crooked nose, his wide mouth. But they pulled together into something that had turned heads. Perhaps it had been confidence of a kind rarely seen. That appeal, that charisma—twenty one dead mean could have written volumes about it.

But that was all over now. His body was no longer a source of pride. The muscle was still there, but it was uneven, his right arm visibly bulkier than his left. His face was covered in scars and bruises.

"I kept hoping one day you'd come."

Bradley shifted the phone from his hand to rest it between his neck and shoulder. It took a bit of maneuvering; both of his elbows had to rest on the small ledge and he had to hunch his big shoulders.

The movement caused him to let out a sudden gasp and then squeeze his shoulder through the faded fabric of his jumper. "You know, as long as you're here you can deliver a message for me. Tell him I said 'Hi'. You know who I mean. The cop."

"He's a detective now. And he's my partner."

The other man's left cheek suddenly caved in and Wolfwood knew he was biting down on the inside of it hard enough to draw blood. He held the position for a moment, as if he were savoring the pain.

When his face returned to what was now normal he said, "A detective. Your partner. Then I guess he must be very happy, being near you everyday like that." His eyes roamed over Wolfwood's face, hungering for some kind of reaction. When it was denied to him, he pressed on. "You'd think it would make me think of him, wouldn't you?" he said, clutching his shoulder more fiercely. "You'd think that every time it gets damp or cold and this hurts that I'd think about him. I don't. Would you believe that even the pain makes me think of you? And it hurts all the time."

Wolfwood said nothing. It was as if he were berating every part of his mind that had thought this idea a good one.

"So I asked the doctors if I could write you letters. They told me 'no'. They said it isn't healthy and that I should respect you and leave you alone. I think it probably has more to do with it being harassment. But I like it that you've come to see me. I like the idea that you won't ever be able to forget me."

"I have a question," Wolfwood said, his voice flat.

"It's about Picasso, isn't it?" the man whispered. In answer to Wolfwood's questioning expression he answered, "I saw you on TV talking about him. I don't like your hair black, but you looked very handsome. "

"Okay, so tell me about Picasso. How long have you been communicating with him?"

Bradley rubbed his face, scrubbing at the bruises and Wolfwood wondered how many were self-inflicted. He doubted that all of them were his own doing. His eyes strayed to the guards again, staying on the heavy-set one whose nametag said "T. Ryan", and then moved back to Bradley.

"Oh, but you're too clever for your own good," Bradley said. "You see it, too, don't you? We're alike, Picasso and me. But I don't think you just now noticed it. How long have you wanted to ask me about him, but held back because you're afraid of me? Or afraid of yourself when you're around me?"

Wolfwood's jaw clenched once before he said, "A long time."

"I don't want you to fear me, Chapel. I'd never hurt you."

"Tell me about Picasso, now."

Bradley looked disappointed as his words were ignored yet again. He lowered his head, then raised it, eyes shifting from side to side as if to be certain they were alone. Apparently the presence of the watchful guards didn't threaten him much at all.

"You should be careful," he whispered.

"Why?"

"Because, there's a reason why you're so good at capturing us. Do you know what it is?"

Wolfwood shook his head. He didn't want to hear this. He knew he didn't, but all he could do was listen.

"It's you," Bradley said, his eyes wide but his pupils small, like pinpoints of insanity. "We're drawn to you, like you're true north and we're just compasses. You don't find us: we find you."

"I don't want to have to ask you again—" Wolfwood began, but Bradley interrupted him. "It's in your eyes," he said. "You're different because you're just like us."

Wolfwood sucked in breath through his teeth sharply. "I'm nothing like you."

"But you are and we can smell you. And now Picasso has picked up your scent. You know by now, don't you? You know that it's you he wants now. Picasso only had one look at you. Maybe it was at a club, just like me. Maybe it was on the street, or in a bookshop, or at a restaurant. Wherever it was, he took one look at you and _knew_."

"Knew what?" Wolfwood barked.

"And then he started wanting to be part of you, just like me."

"Start making sense. I'm warning you."

Bradley's eyes drifted to a far away place, as if he were staring into an ideal future only he could see, one where he could be inside Wolfwood's skin and live there, forever.

"Isn't it funny?" he asked. "You thought you had to lie to me to catch my attention. To catch me. That you had to become something that you weren't. I promise you, I would have noticed you anyway." Here he stopped to laugh like everything was just a joke or a game. "But with Picasso, you really _didn't_ have to do a thing. You didn't have to dress up fancy to catch his eye. You didn't have to dye your pretty hair. You already are what he wants: you're perfect. As Detective Wolfwood you are perfect. But me? No, I can't separate the real you from Chapel in my mind. You're always Chapel to me, a broken toy."

He smiled and it was an ugly thing. "I almost broke you once. If they gave you to me for a day, I'd finish what I started."

What little color was left in Wolfwood's face drained away. "Shut up."

"When I think that he's out there, watching you, maybe even standing over you while you sleep, I get so jealous, Chapel. I think Picasso is a patient man. He'll wait as long as it takes for the right moment. He'll play with you, not quite the same way I did, but still he'll play because it's all a game to him. And then he'll attack. Only he won't mess up. Maybe he'll get rid of your pretty blonde partner before he can get in the way. Maybe he's followed you all the way out here. He could be behind you at any minute. And _that's_ why you have to watch out. Be careful."

He suddenly hunched over like a child avoiding the downward arc of a leather belt, brass-buckled and heavy. He whimpered for a moment and then seemed to pull himself back together. He met Wolfwood's eyes fearlessly with his own.

"So when he comes for you," he whispered, "...tell him to keep his hands to himself. I saw you first. You're mine."

Wolfwood watched him for a moment, bile rising in his throat. The words shook him, made him feel weak and lost and small. They reminded him of everything he couldn't control.

And then quite suddenly, they ceased to do anything to him at all. He sat up straighter in his seat. This was a man who wasn't afraid or cowed. What he _was_ was tired of this. He was tired of fear and of being chained by three years of bad shit. He was not going to play the victim anymore.

"I understand you spent several weeks in the Tank," he said. "If you don't cooperate, I can see to it that you go back, for a lot longer. For obstructing an investigation I could pull for months."

"No!" Bradley shouted and suddenly looked more childlike than ever, his eyes widening and his lips quivering. "D-don't do that! I'll be good! I-I can tell you things about him!"

Wolfwood couldn't merge this man with the obsessed dominating man from just seconds before, but he pressed his advantage. "What can you tell me, Bradley?"

"I-I can tell you how he picks them! How he picks his victims!"

"But I want to know where he _is_," Wolfwood hissed.

"No, no, no! No! I don't know that. I don't know! But I can tell you something else. Anything but the Tank. I don't want to—"

"So start talking."

"P-Picasso wants perfection. He can't be perfect by himself. Everything he does is wrong, wrong, wrong. But he craves it so he watches it. Then he tests it. And if he sees any hint that there's a hole in their perfection, a flaw, any one thing that ruins it, he kills them. He punishes them for lying to him. For making him think they were something they weren't. For making him _believe_. That's how he thinks. That's how he ticks." He stopped to stare at Wolfwood with eyes seeking approval. Wolfwood wouldn't give it to him.

"Sorry, Bradley, no good. You've got to tell me something I don't know."

The nearly innocent expression vanished and Bradley cried, "No, no! Wait! Picasso…it's all a game for him. But I wonder how far he'd be willing to go if someone refused to play along. He knows everything there is to know about his prey but what if he couldn't learn anything about one of them? What if they were one beautiful secret that wouldn't talk and wouldn't yield?" Now his eyes were pleading.

"He'd find out what he needed to find out somehow?"

"Oh, yes."

"He'd ask someone who knows?"

"He would! He would!"

"And what did you tell him, Bradley?"

The big man with the glassy eyes pulled his hands up to his face then, hiding his mouth. He let out a dry cackle.

"Everything."

Wolfwood bowed his head. He sat there, thinking, for so long he was startled when the prisoner spoke again. "He wants a reaction. He's willing to do anything to make you bend. No, no…to _break_ you. He wants it like I wanted it. God, I wanted it. See, we're alike, aren't we?"

Wolfwood truly studied Bradley then, with his savage eyes and his stubbled chin and the scratches across his face and neck. He remembered him how he had been so long ago. In what seemed like another world, Bradley had been searching for what Picasso was searching for now. Something perfect. Something to complete him. Someone who could make the voices stop.

"Yes, Bradley, you are," Wolfwood answered.

The big man chuckled again and shifted back and forth in his seat. "I know, I know. But then, we're different, too," he asserted, almost proudly.

"How so? How are you different?"

"Because I wanted to change. For you. I wouldn't have done it, Chapel. Your partner was wrong. I wasn't going to do it, I promise. We had such good times." He looked down, staring at his hands as if in serene peace. "I never wanted to hurt you. Never you. You were different. Your eyes were different. I felt—yes, deep inside me—that we were the same."

For a moment he was silent, shifting restlessly on his seat and staring off into space. "It made me want to keep you, to somehow become a part of you. I used to dream that I could cut you open and wear you like a suit—like smooth leather—so that I could always be with you." He looked up then, his face the pained mask of someone who had been betrayed. And then it twisted into rage.

He stood, dropped the phone and slammed his palms against the window, then threw his shoulder into it with enough force to dislocate it. "You fucking cunt!" he screamed and the sound was intense enough to penetrate through the glass. "Do you know what you did to me? I can't fucking sleep! I can't eat I can't breathe I can't live!" He began beating the glass with his fists again and again and there was a cracking sound like a light bulb breaking. It all happened in a second, less time than it takes to breathe.

Wolfwood went over in his seat and crashed to the ground. He backed away from the glass where the man was spitting and cursing like a caged animal. He heard the sounds of the guard rushing forward and the door behind him opening as if from far away. All he could focus on was the hatred and madness in Bradley's eyes.

"Would you restrain him already!"

"I'm trying to!"

The voices of the guards were so quiet behind the stream of filth pouring from Bradley's lips that Wolfwood almost didn't hear them at all.

"All I do is fucking think of you, you fucking, fucking whore! You took yourself away from me! I'm gonna get out of here and I'm gonna fucking rip you to pieces and eat every scrap and then you won't leave! Then you'll be a part of me you fucking, fucking…"

He burst into sobs again, as the guards finally got a hold of him, grabbing him under either arm and pulling him backwards. He didn't even struggle as he was dragged away. He looked defeated.

"I would have done...anything for you. I lo-" he wailed, but it was cut off by the door slamming. There was a silent pause that lasted for a minute when Wolfwood was sure he could still see a gaping mouth showing shark-like teeth that cut curses into minced shreds that Wolfwood had no choice but to take.

The burly guard from before came and helped Wolfwood to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Detective," he said. "But we warned you."

* * *

Wolfwood's hands were still trembling when he went to see the warden. The walk back through the prison to the warden's office was just a blur in his mind. It could have taken an hour for all he knew. The next thing he knew, he was being led into another room, this one clean and decorated with paintings of old men in suits—previous wardens of Santa Rosa. 

The warden, a stony faced man with a fair growth of stubble that didn't match with the tailored cut of his suit, introduced himself as Harold Grey. He gave Wolfwood a firm handshake and then gestured to the seat before his desk. In the room with the elderly warden was a young, handsome man with clean cut, shining brown hair. An efficient woman in a pink business suit strolled into the room, set three steaming cups of coffee on the table, smiled winningly at everyone, and then exited.

Once Wolfwood was comfortable, the younger man pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at Wolfwood knowingly.

"I'm Doctor Steven Vaughn, chief psychologist here at Santa Rosa. You're Detective Wolfwood," he added when Wolfwood would have introduced himself. "It's nice to finally meet you. I'm afraid to say that I would have known you in an instant if I saw you on the street. Bradley is an excellent artist. You look exactly like the pictures he's drawn."

Wolfwood tried to take a sip of coffee, but failed. "Pictures?" he asked.

"Ah, yes. Bradley is quite prolific. Please forgive me for being forward but I have to say I believe your visit today did more harm than good for the both of you. If you caused Karl to manifest like that, it stands to reason that he was very upset and had I been in the prison when you first arrived, I would have briefed you _before_ subjecting you to Bradley as he is in his current state." Here he cut a look at the warden who stoically ignored it. From their body language, Wolfwood was willing to bet that the warden and Vaughn had more arguments than agreements and that he had stumbled across the latest of many. Being at the center of a fight between these two was counterproductive, so Wolfwood vowed to tread carefully and keep the conversation going in the direction smoothest for him.

"Excuse me, but...well, yeah, Bradley was _cracked_ three years ago. He talked to himself, he had violent breaks. He went on a killing spree. But he didn't answer to different names. What happened?"

"According to the guards downstairs, you got to see it firsthand so you should know. You just got an introduction to the personality called 'Karl'. I'm not surprised."

"Karl? What in the..." he caught himself and took a deep breath. "So the insanity plea didn't hold up in court, but it holds water here? You're telling me that you honestly believe that Bradley has multiple personalities? Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

"Oh, no. Not in the slightest," was the young doctor's response. Wolfwood's confused expression made him laugh. "Let me rephrase that. Or rather, I should bring you up to speed on a few things before I give you a better answer. First on the list is that I'm new here; I transferred in five months ago after the previous doctor took early retirement. He left behind a mass of patients and cases and paperwork that I haven't had the time to really look into. What I _have_ seen is that he was a very old-fashioned man."

"Meaning what?"

"In the case of Bradley, it means that he fostered and nurtured pre-existing symptoms that could have been eliminated by the use of isolation and countersuggestion."

"Am I to take 'isolation' to mean several weeks in a cell in the dark?"

Vaughn looked offended. "No. Don't be mistaken: my practice and the prison's rules aren't connected. Even if I recommend a certain course or treatment for an inmate, there is nothing that says it _has_ to be followed if that inmate breaks the rules. Bradley nearly beat a man to death. Just because I say the isolation ward will worsen his condition, doesn't mean I'll be listened to."

From the glance he sent the warden's way, it was obvious that this was another major issue of conflict between the two of them.

"Okay, so isolation and countersuggestion mean _what_ in Bradley's case?" he asked.

The doctor looked bemused and then delighted to have a chance to rant. He began his explanation with a smirk that shifted from sad amusement to sardonic irritation from one minute to the next.

"With doctors like my predecessor, rare and fantastic symptoms are not only more interesting, but sometimes the only ones they are willing to treat. This explains why we have a man who was obviously disturbed and violent before he came to Santa Rosa but one who, when he is finally executed, will die with at least two additional personalities in tow that he didn't have _before_ entering into treatment here. He has now had his case re-opened for the judges to consider mental disorders that 'escaped the first lawyer's notice' and has had several stays of execution pass through without a hitch. Doctors from around the country come to Santa Rosa to 'assess and observe' him and his personalities, which turns my practice into a circus."

He took a breath and sat forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. "When I say isolation and countersuggestion, I mean getting him away from a system that has allowed Bradley to _create _a disease that hides the _real_ problems instead of tracking the symptoms to the original cause and then treating it. In short: if you encourage a patient to talk about a make-believe personality—which then lets them escape from talking about the real issues—then that patient will keep feeding into the attention. They'll do tricks to please you. They'll create hundreds of personalities just for you so long as it keeps you distracted! And while all this is going on, they'll slowly be getting worse instead of better.

"It's not something I approve of, but it's common enough. You'll find doctors all around the world who only treat patients with Dissociative Identity Disorder. They have an army of sufferers to choose from to validate their research just as conspiracy theorists have a million alien abductees to interview if the need arises. You can treat imaginary symptoms forever that way."

Here his tone lightened and it was obvious that he was about to present his own theories and beliefs with all the pleasure that they brought him. "If, instead, you pay no attention to the patient's attempts to distract you—if you refuse to acknowledge, recognize or even speak to their additional personalities—slowly but surely they too will begin to disregard them. Once you get to that point, you can bring things back around; you can discuss the things that brought them here in the first place. So in answer to your question, 'Do I believe he suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder?' I have to say that if he didn't when he was arrested, he does now. Is it a symptom of any psychosis that he originally suffered from? I can't say. I do know that what ails Bradley now, on top of everything else, is a beautifully crafted institutional black hole. If I had no other patients and another three years to work with him, I'd say I could get him back to being the serial killer you first met and we could go from there. As it stands now..."

His nonchalant shrug was a beautiful end to a speech that might have been part of his master's thesis for all Wolfwood knew. He couldn't say he liked Vaughn very much. Everything he said seemed so contrived and scripted that talking to him felt somehow artificial. He never thought he'd say so, but he'd take the Doc back at South any day. Yeah, he was a cocky little snot, but he told you what he thought without all the dramatics. Vaughn, on the other hand, was a well-put-together one-man show.

"All right, so he's more fucked up now than he was before and you're treating symptoms somebody else made."

"Well, that's a simple way of putting it, yes."

"Understood. So tell me about these pictures then. Both 'Karl' and Bradley draw them? You can tell the difference between their styles?"

"Definitely. Dr. Macon, my predecessor, recommended allowing the drawings to continue even when they were disturbing because he considered them therapeutic. I saw the drawings before I ever met Bradley and was able to come to my own conclusions about his feelings for you based on them. You're frequently a subject of his drawings and, to put it simply, he is obsessed with you. According to Dr. Macon, Bradley's two personalities are conflicted. While Bradley has the desire to either possess you or become you, Karl has only ever expressed hatred and violence towards you. Recently, however, the Karl psyche has developed an…interest in you that extends beyond violence. Macon believed it stems from his inability to kill you like the others. You're the one that got away, so to speak. I'm afraid your visit today only worsened the situation."

Wolfwood gave up trying to remain unfazed and sat the coffee onto the warden's desk. "If this 'Karl' is really just an excuse or manifestation for Bradley's anger, then if he's got an interest in me, it's me dead. Revenge. Nothing else." Wolfwood looked up sharply at the silence that met his statement. The doctor looked uncomfortable.

Vaughn adjusted his glasses. "To some extent, you are correct. He still feels violently towards you and regards you as a threat. But recently, his drawings have become…well, there's no easy way to say it, is there? They've become sexual in nature. Before, only Bradley drew these sorts of images. They were always more romantic, if you will, and were concerned largely with becoming a part of you."

"And you have no idea what caused this change?"

"None."

"I may have a hunch. Am I allowed to see these?"

Vaughn cleared his throat. "I believe it might be a bad idea to show them to you," he said gently.

"Just," Wolfwood said loudly, but then finished on a quieter note when the doctor jumped, "show me the drawings."

With a great show of reluctance, Vaughn crossed the room to where a briefcase was leaning against the wall. He withdrew a portfolio and then made a show of opening it and carefully weeding out the ones that were definitely not to be shown. After a fair amount of shuffling, the drawings were handed over.

Wolfwood steeled himself and looked down. The shrink wasn't lying about the likeness. Every single sketch, while violently executed, was amazingly life-like. And in every image there was Wolfwood, bound with leather straps around every part of his body. In most of them he was bleeding from cuts that painted familiar patterns across his skin. The most disturbing image was one where his mouth was stretched wide—to cartoon-like proportions—and a bloody figure, like muscle and bone walking without flesh, was stepping into it. Next to it, words had been scratched into the paper so hard that it had ripped:

"I will be you. You will stay."

Wolfwood moved on to the next image in the stack. It was an incredibly detailed sketch of him with butterfly wings. The kitschy, sweetness of it was ruined by the fact that he was tied to the ground by a thick chain that wound around his neck and that there were spikes driven into his feet. The word "stay" was scratched into his chest and the wound bled, bright red blood pooling at his feet.

Wolfwood handed the images back silently. Perhaps the shrink had been right about it being better for him not to see these.

Vaughn gave him a concerned look and slid the images discretely back inside the portfolio.

"Romantic, doctor?" Wolfwood said on an exhausted sigh.

"Relatively speaking. You will agree that this is pretty romantic for a man who raped and killed twenty one men."

"Point taken."

"Indeed. But as I said, recently Karl has also been creating images of a sexual nature. About you. Whether or not to call them 'romantic' is debatable since they're alarmingly violent, but still..."

The doctor shrugged again in that affected way of his.

Wolfwood noted that he made no move to reveal one of the drawings in question.

"Am I allowed to see any of 'Karl's' new doodles?" he asked.

"I think that's a bad idea," the warden said, interrupting the conversation. He had been such a silent observer that Wolfwood had almost forgotten about him.

"The situation with Bradley is unusual enough as it is without you having to see it at its weirdest. It gives me the fucking heebie geebies. You know the worst of it now. How knowing that will help you solve your Picasso case, I don't have a clue. I respect you for having the balls to come here and confront a man who has cost you so much, but today's fiasco has inconvenienced me and my staff. The word that you're here has already gotten around and we're dealing with fights and disobedience across the board. Dr. Vaughn may be dealing with the aftershocks of your visit for months. Or longer."

"Warden, if I may—" Vaughn tried, but Grey held up a hand to halt him.

"I haven't finished," he said. Vaughn nodded his head and slinked backwards a step. Grey continued. "Assistant Warden Ferrier has told me that you came here looking for specific results. He has also told me that you are now aware of the difficulties in bringing those about. We have no proof that Bradley is communicating with anyone and no reason to believe that your case will be helped if we do find any."

"And I really don't care what you believe," Wolfwood said with a shrug and a half smile. "My case required that I drop in on you today, so I dropped in. My case also requires your cooperation in regards to how Bradley is monitored. Picasso _has _contacted Bradley. And if we can track that line down, it will lead to my suspect and that's all I care about. The half-assed way you run this place has very little to do with me except for the fact that it's in my way. I really would appreciate your cooperation. I'd rather not have to do this the ugly way and have your entire prison and staff investigated, but I will if I have to. Don't make me pull strings. I can."

Here the warden sat forward and his eyes hardened. "That's a very serious threat and one that I believe you're willing to carry through."

"In a New York minute."

Grey smiled without humor. "All right, all right. Hear me out for a minute. Let's come to a compromise. What we need is time."

"No, warden, that I can't give you. I'm afraid time is the one thing—next to patience—that I've run out of."

* * *

It was a beautiful day and Detective was gone. The skies were being played in by pristine clouds and pleasant breezes stirred the trees. 

Detective was not where he should have been.

The children in the street rejoiced when the fire fighters popped a hydrant. Every one of them from preschool to high school ran abound like heathens in the spray.

Detective had left him.

It disturbed him more than he thought it ought to. It disturbed him so much that the words being spoken to him now—in a place only he and one other knew about— hardly registered. The other man who knew stood still before him when he could bear to, and paced when he couldn't.

"I told you that you'd get us both in trouble!" he shouted.

"And I thought I told you not to come here."

"This is an emergency. They have my face plastered all over town!"

"But that is your own fault for being careless. You're always so careless."

And now he was pacing again, pulling at his short hair with his fists. "I have to get out of here. You have to help me get out of here."

"You should stay where you are. If you leave, they will catch you. Stay where you are, wait for it to die down."

"Die down! This one isn't going to die down! Her heart exploded in her chest! You went too far!"

"I? I went too far? Now you're talking like a fool as well. Listen to me: stay put, lay low and do as I say and they'll never find you. Run out of town as you are now and you're as good as caught."

The blonde man opened his mouth as if to speak, paused and seemed to be thinking, weighing his options. Finally, he backed away, towards the door. "No, you're the fool! I'm getting out of here. Come with me! Help me! We can make it together."

The other man tilted his head and examined him. "No," was all he said.

The angry spat of words that came in response to that didn't really penetrate. And when the other man left, it mattered much less.

Where had Detective gone? How dare he...

Hours passed and he found himself moving. He was out the door and walking down the street that was lit up by the gaudy streetlights. They were better than the sun because the sun left, but these never did. Day was endless here.

His feet knew where he was going and carried him along at a frantic pace. When he arrived, he stared up at the grungy brick face of the building and the flickering neon lighting before considering the entrance. Did he have to go inside? After all, business here extended onto the street. He looked around uncertainly as blondes and red-heads streamed past him. They would never do, but inside might not be any better. So in or out?

His decision was made for him when someone exited the club, crossed the sidewalk and leaned casually against the streetlight. This child of the club lit a cigarette, noticed that he was being stared at and stared right back. He was young—maybe eighteen or nineteen—but his eyes were old. Black hair, blue eyes, a nose just a tad too large for his long face. He was tall and lean and dressed in black that caressed him like a lover. The choice was easy. This one fit the bill.

In a smooth motion, the boy pushed off the lamp and approached. He was too graceful, but the effect was nice.

"Hey, there. I don't think I've seen you before," he whispered in the stranger's ear. The voice was wrong and it made him flinch. It was the voice of someone born and raised in July. It was such a jarring contrast to what he wanted to hear that he turned to walk away.

"Hey, don't be shy," the boy said too quickly, and let smoke drift from his lips in a way he probably picked up from some movie. "You're not a cop, are you?"

"No."

"Good. Listen, I saw you looking at me and you obviously came for a reason, right?"

"Yes."

"So do you wanna go somewhere more comfortable?"

"All right."

He followed the boy back into the club and didn't make a sound. He paid his way and no one looked at him twice.

The boy chatted about the club ("A fucking drag tonight, glad you came") and drugs ("Talk to Sophie and you can get the best shit ever"). He exchanged whispered words with a few people, exchanged crumpled dollars with a few more, and all too soon they were headed up a quiet stairway at the back of the club. The light was bad and so the boy took his hand in his and led the way. It was too intimate.

The room when they entered was just as dark as the stairway had been. It was too hot and not very large. The only comforts were an old bed in one corner and a nightstand with a cracked mirror in another. A door led off to a small bathroom, but it too was dark. "The lights are all busted, sorry," the boy explained. There was the sound of shoes shuffling across the floor and then weak pink light strained into the room from the window, flashing every five seconds. "From the sign," the boy said with a shrug. "It's pink, but at least we can see what we're doing."

He studied the stranger in the insufficient lighting. He didn't look like one of those creepy guys you heard about on the news. He would even be handsome if he did something with his hair. He wasn't the worse John in the world, he figured. "You know this isn't free, right?" he said once he had checked the room over and locked the door.

"Yes."

"Okay. That's good. Do you want to come over here so we can have some fun? There are lots of things I can do for you. Want a blowjob? They're pretty cheap."

The stranger didn't say anything in reply so the boy tried again. "So...do you want to do something or what?"

And now the stranger seemed confused. He shook his head, nodded his head, looked down and then all around. His body language showed that he was uncomfortable, unsure, and perhaps unused to dealing with people in situations like this. The boy had no way of knowing that this man, now that he was here, wasn't sure what he wanted either. Not from this doppelganger, and certainly not from the real thing.

"Hey," the boy laughed, "don't be shy. I think you're cute." He moved forward and slid his arms around the stranger's neck.

This close, everything was so clear. The boy's hair wasn't quite black and his eyes were the wrong color blue and he was wearing some kind of tacky powder above them and eyeliner below. His breath smelled of cheap beer. He was so...

...so very flawed.

A poor substitute.

The boy leaned forward and pressed a long, dry kiss against his jaw and trailed his lips down. He stopped, opened his mouth and sucked rhythmically, his tongue darting out cat-like. When that didn't work, the boy's hands began sliding under his shirt, tickling along his ribs and then down lower and lower. He cupped the front of his slacks in one hand, but there was no response.

Finally, frustrated, he broke the kiss and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Are you gonna do something or not? My time's not free and I don't have all fucking night."

There was a pause, a tiny eternity warped and compressed to fit into that silence. It was a silence with a million warnings hidden within, but the boy didn't hear them.

"No," Picasso said. "You don't."

The boy flew back across the room as if tugged by a hook at his back, hit the closed window and was suspended there for a moment, a black silhouette outlined in flickering light. Body ringing with more pain than he could even register the boy watched the other man raise a hand and slash it through the air once—side to side like clearing a table in anger. There was a wet sound like paint splattering across a wall.

He wasn't alive to see the second motion—down to up—like a bride tossing a bouquet behind her.

The boys halves and quarters and tatters thudded to the ground. Picasso felt the long trails of blood slipping down his face and wiped at them absentmindedly.

In the dark, it was hard to see the pattern he had made and the frayed ends on the boy's body where it used to join into one piece but had been torn into four instead. Too dark to see.

But when the cops came up tomorrow in the light of day, they would find it, would see that the blood mimicked the slashes he had cut through the air. He knew the distinct shape would dry there, stain the woodwork and the plaster on the ceiling.

He strode forward, dropped to one knee, and, like water snaking through an oasis, extended his arm to dip his fingers into the fluid spreading across the floor. He stood again. A few, easy steps brought him to a clear space on the wall, illuminated at turns by flashing pink.

He wrote, and when it was finished, he backed away to study it.

Then the man known as Picasso turned on his heels, unbolted the door, and stepped through it. Back along the corridor and down the stairs he went. He was stopped at the base of the stairs.

"Whoa, whoa, there! Where's Bret? Is that…is that blood? Holy shit, what are you?"

The man tried to run, but didn't make it. And as Picasso walked through the club, anger and disappointment harmonized inside him, swelling to such heights that anyone who stood in his way soon fell by the way. He was distantly aware of panicking and screaming, and a stampede of bodies running away from him.

There seemed to be cascading fountains springing up around him and hot pools at his feet. He stepped over a body and gestured easily towards another without pausing to watch it twist, spasm and then fall.

Then everything was still.

At the entrance, he turned and looked back at the trail of red he had left behind him.

His breath hitched. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't order; this wasn't part of his plan. This was...

"Detective," he whispered, "look what you made me do."

To be continued...

* * *

Blink, blink. Right. 

Okay, about Bradley. His last name is "Monev" because he _is_ partly modeled after Mr. The Gale, but not entirely. He's a strange, AU, fanfiction creation that I don't feel the least bit guilty about. But if you wanted a cooler guy to be Leatherman, I do apologize. He's just freaking crazy instead.

Big Valentine's Hearts and Flowers to readers and reviewers. Oh, the problem with reviewing that plagued the last chapter _shouldn't_ be a problem this time, but I don't really know.

Up Next...?


	19. Into Temptation

Warnings: Adult language, gore and icky stuff, adult situations, homosexual themes, excessive passive voice. Proper spelling and grammar is for cooler people than me.

* * *

Part XXXI: Into Temptation

* * *

He dreamt old dreams in vivid color. These were dreams that were made worse—or better—by the fact that they weren't really dreams at all. They were memories parading as dreams. 

And in these dreams, he took a turn around the room and watched.

_All around him the rich and privileged were in disguise, hidden behind leather hoods with zippers where mouths should have been. They were different people with their skin showing and collars chaffing their necks. Some were in lace, but most were in leather. Handkerchiefs of every color dangled out of painted-on pockets—blue, red, yellow. _

_Black. _

_And the pocket—left or right—changed the meaning entirely. They were signs, a secret language that the media was just now catching up to thirty years past its heyday. He was fluent. Fluent enough to blend in here. Yet that didn't change the fact that he was an outsider in unfamiliar, exciting territory._

_But he knew what all the signs meant because they were common enough if you knew where to look, discussed enough if you listened carefully, and passed on enough if you stood in the right place with your hands ready to receive. Yes, he knew what they were _supposed _to mean because he had made it his business to know. But he knew when someone was lying because, no matter what else he looked like, he was a detective and this wasn't his world. _

_Black, back pocket left two seats down was a liar who paraded around that he'd strap you down and fuck you raw, but wanted it the other way around and wanted it hard. A few minutes of sly study proved that the handkerchief in his pocket was a lie, but a harmless one. Most times, anyway. If he didn't want to go around advertising that he was as passive as a lamb, it was his choice._

_Maybe, he thought, it wasn't so much lying as twisting the language in ways that suited you. Like speaking half French and half Japanese so that both sides are willing to bet they know what you're saying, but won't be angry if you tell them that they're wrong._

_But black, back pocket left across the dance floor was staring at him. Had been staring at him the whole time. And this one wasn't lying. He was a predator. It took all his will, but he finally turned away, but his pulse was beating erratically. It wasn't out of fear._

_He steadied himself and continued to move around the room always aware of the eyes that followed him. He turned down several offers, smiled at a few more. In another life, he could have been an actor. He didn't jump when the whisper caressed his ear but a shiver ran down his spine. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was because he had known that he would come. Somehow, he had known._

_"What's your name?" the stranger asked and moved closer. There was barely six inches of space between them and he could feel the heat radiating off the bulky body behind him. "Uh-uh," he answered easily. "The name's not free. Buy me a drink." Yes, he could have been an actor._

_And black, back pocket left chuckled and leaned down so close that his breath showered over his neck. He inhaled deeply. "Turn around and look at me," he ordered. Like a puppet, he obeyed and looked up at the giant man invading his personal space and drinking in his body with his eyes. "You're a beautiful toy," he growled, "and I want to break you."_

He woke up hard and sweating. For a moment, the blankets twisting around him made him panic and struggle to break free. He calmed himself with deep, even breaths. He was indeed in May City, but he was safe in his hotel room. That nightmare club was far away and the nightmare man was behind bars. The blue glow from the alarm clock on the nightstand said 5:00. He had barely slept four hours. He rubbed at his face but didn't move from where he was with the blankets pooled around his waist and the sweat dripping off his chest.

The dreams weren't a surprise. It would have been more surprising if he hadn't had them. After seeing Bradley again, trying to stop the thoughts was like trying to hold back a flood.

And he was honest enough with himself to admit that it was more than just seeing Bradley, but seeing him so changed that grabbed him. He had tried to tell himself that he wasn't disappointed. He was happy, relieved even, that Bradley was no longer someone who could control him. Bradley had lost himself and all his powers inside Santa Rosa. He was nothing but the tattered remains of someone who had once been capable of great, terrible things. But repeating these thoughts had failed to do the trick because a treacherous part of him _was_ disappointed. It remembered Bradley as he had been, remembered what he had been able to do to Wolfwood. That part of him still...

Maybe he wasn't fooling anyone but himself, pretending to be the straight-laced detective who never slipped and had no flaws.

To fight the thoughts, he sat there in the early morning hours and reviewed his time in May—the good and the bad—and what had been accomplished. The fact that things were being done helped ease his mind. The workaholic in him might argue that not _enough_ was being done, and that it was being done too slowly. But considering that the odds of him finding anything at all had been slim, he had to count his blessings.

All it had taken was a date, a timeline. Wolfwood had done a little math in his head—imprecise and with a lot of guesswork—but it had been just the thing he needed to get a leg up. His calculations had been based on how long it took a letter to get from July to here, a reply to be written and sent back, when Picasso had first contacted him, and pure dumb luck. It was also based on the hope that Picasso had used traditional means to contact Bradley, which was perhaps taking too many liberties. But taken as a whole, he was able to guess-timate the week that Bradley had been contacted by Picasso. It was rough and hard to swallow, but Wolfwood had set the wheels into motion anyway, asking Warden Gray for help in tracking down the lines of communication. Gray was willing to cooperate provided the trouble of a full-fledged investigation wasn't dropped on his head. It was the last thing he needed with the policy changes he was attempting.

So what did Wolfwood know after his numerical mental workout? He knew that Bradley had been in the Tank during the week in question. If he had received any communications, it must have been while he was there, which meant that someone had helped him. Both Assistant Warden Ferrier and Gray had made it clear that the guards at Santa Rosa were as twisted and corrupt as they came. So Wolfwood felt safe in narrowing his search down to those guards who had been on duty in the Tank or had access of some kind. And if the one responsible for smuggling communications to Bradley wasn't among the guards on duty, then there had to be at least one who knew something or knew someone who knew something. It always worked that way. Scratch at a healed wound enough and it will bleed.

But until that happened, Wolfwood was at loose ends. His thoughts had calmed him down from the dream, and now he felt like moving.

He showered and dressed silently, headed down for the same breakfast he'd had the day before, and soon found himself out in the brisk salty air that made May City a refreshing place to live, but a bad place to put sculptures. And dammit if that air didn't make him feel nostalgic. Maybe it, more than anything else, had picked up his feet and sent him venturing out of his hotel room when he would have otherwise sat and brooded over his visit to the prison. True, Santa Rosa was never far from the center of his thoughts, but for a small moment, the beasts and shadows associated with it were sleeping if not soundly, than quietly. He could ignore them if he tried hard enough. He was more than willing to make the effort to.

He let himself sink into the memories, like huddling under an old comforter or reclining in a well-loved chair. He was out in the rush with the morning work crowd and tried his best to ignore them the way they ignored everything around them in their hurry. His mind still noticed details, like always, but even they couldn't combat the sneaky, pleasant feeling that was overtaking him.

He walked without any definite direction in mind, which, of course, meant that he ended up here—here being the center of all his old haunts and dives. He guessed it was what they called "The old stomping ground." He had certainly done a lot of stomping around these parts. Right off the intersection of Wright and 47th. He looked to his left and hid a smile.

That house right there. Breaking and entering, double arrest. Back then, new on the force, he hadn't known his ass from his elbows; he hadn't even considered ever becoming a homicide detective at that point. Young Officer Wolfwood had just wanted to prove himself and stop the bad guys. He could laugh _now_ at how his voice had wavered when he said, "Freeze." But that day, the robbers had been the only ones laughing.

And man, that big guy had had a left hook like a hammer.

Two streets down was his first noise violation. What a surprise it had been when the reported house turned out to be a meth lab of the kind that could make farm towns in the Midwest jealous. And he had happily turned his paperwork over to narcotics and never thought about the house again. Until now, that is. He liked to think he was the kind of guy who could get a laugh out of his past, the parts of it that weren't bloody and horrible that is. And walking into a meth lab, staring at all the men and women in masks and rubber gloves and saying, "We had a call about some noise..." like a damn idiot was a laugh riot. Really.

Old memories were popping up left, right and center now that their relics were right before him. Buildings he used to stake out, pool halls he used to shake down, bars where the waitresses had known his favorite drinks and had mixed them "special just for you, officer." What was the name of that cute one with all the piercings in interesting places?

Oh, yeah. _Joselyn_. That girl could do things to make a man sit up and beg.

He walked on and everything old was new again. He thought about Vash.

In fact, he was thinking about Vash far, far, too much. Being back in May where they had first met and had spent a lot of time together was one of the problems. Being too far away from him and knowing that he was still in danger, and more so than ever, was another. All the rest of it was that memories of Vash from that time weren't painful. They were _good_ memories like the kind they put in those stupid montage moments in TV shows.

Back before everything had gone all pear-shaped and he had learned more about himself than he had ever wanted to know, he had thought that maybe there was a chance that he and Vash could be...friends? Something? Hell, he thought bitterly, who knew what he had thought back then?

Not far from here was Harper's Old Irish Pub where he and Vash used to waste a lot of time shooting the shit after the heat from the Leatherman arrest and trial cooled down. Vash used to hustle the newbies at darts, loosing the first round and then cleaning them all out in the second. Wolfwood had sat back and watched with no small amount of pleasure. He missed those times. All the drama with Picasso and the intense interview with Bradley were just making those rare, precious, peaceful times more desirable.

Up ahead, the buildings became a little grayer, a little more old-fashioned and square. The day stretched on. He skipped lunch, but didn't notice.

The façade of a familiar building greeted him when he turned a corner. It was no accident that he had ended up here. After all, he had dreamt about it, he might as well come and see the real thing. Behind the locked black door was a dance floor that smelled like sweat and booze. And off in hidden corners were dark rooms for doing dark, dark things. He looked at the entranceway, bright in the sunshine and quiet at this time of day. He wondered if he were to go inside at night when it was lively if he would be recognized for someone he wasn't. Or someone that he wasn't _anymore_.

His feet were bolted to the pavement before the club by a single thought: All the good times were over and his life was out of control.

Control. It had slipped through his fingers and since he couldn't have it he might as well _let go_.

He felt familiar stirrings, a tug at the base of his spine that told him he could come back later. Yes, he could do that. He could...

His cell phone rang and saved him.

* * *

Detective Vash Saverem did not like the sight of blood. It seemed to be a contradiction to anyone who knew him. He was no coward, that they knew. He was a damn fine cop and a good detective. The squeamish thing with the blood? What was up with _that?_ The other officers whispered to themselves and tried to figure it out, but it beat the hell out of them. 

This time around, they were with him one hundred percent. This was enough to turn anyone's stomach. In fact, with this one, Vash was handling it better than a lot of the rookies.

"How many bodies?" he asked and tried to find a place on the floor to step. Even with the bags over his feet, he didn't like the idea of walking through the room. There was no way to walk without disturbing _something_. "This has all been photographed, right?"

"Yes, step where you...dare. As for the bodies, well, we don't know yet. The Bone Crew's still putting together pieces. If I say more than ten will that satisfy you?"

Vash looked at the young captain—his name was Dan or Dave, Vash couldn't remember—and tried to see if he was making a tasteless joke. His expression was perfectly serious, so Vash bit back the urge to call him on it.

The club was called "Illusions" and the most trouble it had ever had was a slap on the wrist for serving to a couple of minors. They had their fair share of streetwalkers and junkies hanging around, but Vash couldn't think of a club that didn't. Mostly, they kept their noses pretty clean. Their days of being comparatively squeaky clean were over, officially. The mess on the floor before him was going to sink the club into infamy.

"More than ten," Vash muttered and stepped onto a patch of floor that was stained a rusty, brownish red. There was a sticky noise like congealed syrup makes when someone steps in it. But this wasn't syrup. Navigating his way to the steps took another ten minutes. By the time he made it to the base of the stairs, the worst of it was over. He came to the landing and pressed himself flat against the wall as a line of officers came down the hall. Each one nodded and greeted him with a respectful, "Detective," before attempting to brave the gore of the first floor themselves.

He entered the room at the top of the stairs and had an overall impression of red. At first glance, it was random, just splatters like some abstract painting in a gallery. When he looked a little longer, he could make out the shape. From wall to wall was one long swath. From floor to ceiling was one more crossing over the first. Taken together, they formed a crude cross made of blood that had splattered half of the room the way whitewash can when tossed from a bucket. Underneath the leftmost arm of the cross, someone had scrawled something. Vash stepped closer towards it.

"Detective, good that you're here," an elderly man said just as Vash started to move further into room. The blue material secured over the man's feet made more sticky sounds and rustled as he hurried to reach him. He shook Vash's gloved hand with his own. Vash let the message on the wall go for a moment and gave his attention to the thin man before him.

"Hello," he began and caught himself before his tongue slipped, "Dr. Cain."

The old man let a pale tongue dart across his wrinkled lips. Round spectacles covered wild, shifty eyes and there was something about the way he bent and stooped that was vulture-like. "Well, well," he said. "These young ones have handled the scene as per your instructions, but I've always thought things run more smoothly with a detective on the scene. We have a mess! Looks like you have a new case. And you already have your hands full. And now this, too? Such a shame."

Vash ignored the excited gleam in the older man's eyes to make polite noises to his ramblings. Old Man Cain rarely left his little basement of the world with its shiny tools that could cut through a rib cage in less than a minute or extract a kitchen knife from where the muscles had clamped down on it after the body was cold and stiff. In situations like this when the bodies weren't in the best shape to be sent to him, he came out himself and had a look. He bundled them up and moved them out like Charon on the River Styx. Who better than the man who was their second to last visitor to say how he wanted them gift-wrapped? Vash sometimes wondered what it took for someone to become a forensic scientist or a coroner. It didn't seem healthy to spend more time with the dead than the living. It seemed even less healthy to _enjoy _it.

"A new case?" Vash asked. "What makes you say that?"

"Well this doesn't look anything from your files. I'm used to untangling the victims you sign for, not putting them back together."

Vash shook his head. "Show me what we've got."

Old Man Cain smiled his papery smile and crooked a finger. His long, stooped body moved into the small, cramped room and came to a halt before a messy assembly of what had once been a person. Each piece was wrapped in plastic, laid side-by-side, and tagged, but Vash had a hard time imagining how anyone could have sorted through them at all.

He frowned as he tried to put the butchered pieces together in his mind. A shoulder and arm formed one whole but his eyes kept telling him that the grey, red and white mess laying at an angle to it might somehow pull together into half of a face if you lifted the stained flaps of skin up and over. Next to that was more of the same: parts that might have once fit together somehow, but never would again.

"Male, late teens," Cain began, "but I can't tell you much more because…well, Detective, can you blame me?"

Vash shook his head dumbly. No, he really couldn't. Cain waved over a boy in blue. "This was in his pocket," he said. Vash took the small, sealed bag and looked at the bloodied identification card. "Tom Roberts," he read and then let his eye wander to the small picture in the corner. His breath hitched, but he covered his reaction as best he could.

"Fake," he said quickly.

"Figured as much," Cain said and then waved the officer away. Vash watched him leave and noticed that the other officers who came in and out of the room didn't seem to stay long. He couldn't blame _them_ either. "What did this?" he asked. "Chainsaw?"

Cain cleared his throat and scratched at his ragged gray hair. "Detective, I have been doing this for a very long time. I know quite a lot about weapons and what they can do. Did you know that a bat swung with enough force and enough speed at a man's privates will shatter his pelvic bone in seconds? Or that a bullet to the gut usually won't kill you right away? It's a whole lot more painful than that. You'll get blood poisoning long before you bleed to death. I know what one human being can do to another. And I know what _I _can do to a body. I've watched the tools of the trade change before my eyes. It used to take a hacksaw and elbow grease to crack someone open. Now I've got these fancy little tools that plug up and never get tired. They can take a bone in two like a hot knife through butter. What I don't have—and have never seen—is a tool or weapon that can slice a man's spine cleanly in half lengthwise without an entrance wound. The same goes for the pelvis. No matter how messily the muscles tore, the bones are as clean as if I had done it myself."

Vash held up a hand to halt the man when he would have continued. "Doctor, you're saying he was...? What _are_ you saying?"

"I'm saying that in my professional opinion, this boy was ripped to pieces by _nothing_. There is no evidence that a weapon ever touched him."

Vash's face was a stony mask. He wandered away, silent. Cain watched him as he navigated the splatters on the floor and came to stand before the long arms of the cross. He tilted his head to the side as he read the flaking letters written in blood. Cain saw him sigh even though he couldn't hear it. Then the lanky detective was reaching into his pocket and retrieving his cell phone.

He waited.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" he said after a moment.

_"No," _Wolfwood answered. _"In fact, your timing is perfect."_

_

* * *

_

The month of July in the city of July wasn't usually this hot. The record-breaking heat continued and the city suffered. Leaves turned brown and dry on the trees and stray dogs lapped at gutters with parched tongues.

Stepping off the plane and into this had been a slap in the face for Wolfwood. May had been pleasantly warm, not sweltering.

So he was back, but he felt pretty torn about it. July wasn't his home. He belonged in May no matter what bad things had gone on there. Visiting again had only reminded him of the fact. More than that, he felt unsettled about returning here because his business out east was hardly finished. But an urgent call from Vash was an urgent call from Vash. The business at Santa Rosa would have to be handled long distance. A squad car and a couple of friendly but anxious officers were waiting for him at the airport. They didn't talk much and Wolfwood was glad for it. Silence suited his mood.

On his way through the city, the first things he noticed were the posters of Blondie. They were in shop windows and dangling off tree trunks. But unlike every other time he had looked at the grainy image of the man, this time he noticed something familiar about his features. He couldn't say it was a perfect match. There were distinct differences, but he'd be damned if Blondie didn't look like his partner.

He shook it off. He was sluggish from the plane ride and tired in general. Seeing things most likely. He didn't buy his own line, but there were other things to think about.

It wasn't long before he was at the scene—Club Illusion—which was still as busy as it had been the day before. There were now officers on site whose only duties were to keep the cameras and reporters away. When Wolfwood arrived, the noise from the corner to where they had been restricted swelled. The strained against the barrier of men and police lines.

"Detective Wolfwood! Is this a new serial killer? Is there any connection to Picasso?"

"Is there an official body count at the present?"

"Are there any suspects in custody?"

He paused before them and tried not to flinch at the bright camera flashes. He told them what he could, which wasn't much, asked for their assistance, and was then ushered inside as quickly as possible.

The mess that had greeted Vash the day before was less gruesome without the bodies, but not by much. Wolfwood prepped for the scene, covered his feet, slipped on a pair of gloves, and moved carefully. As he went, it seemed as if the whole room full of people were trying to tell him the details all at once.

"—four here in the center of the room, massive blood loss..."

"—two near the stairs, estimated time of death..."

"—can't locate the owner and it's possible he was one of the victims but..."

Wolfwood listened and observed and realized he could barely breathe for the weight of foreboding that had settled on him. The room looked as if it had been painted haphazardly with blood. Here and there he spotted chalk outlines, but they were partial things. There wasn't one that looked like the outline of a complete body anywhere. Something wild and raging had done this. Or someone so damn cold and cool that they didn't care. Despite the fact that it didn't fit with what had come before, this scene reeked of Picasso.

He was led up the stairs and through a door. In the corner, a few officers stopped what they were doing to look up.

"Good to have you back, Detective," one of them said.

"Good to be back," Wolfwood said. Before the window, tall and blonde and just a little lost, Vash turned away from the wall to greet him with a sad smile. And though he was standing in a room stained with blood, Wolfwood realized his words weren't the lies they could have been.

He shuffled into the room and stood next to Vash. Together, they stared at the message written in mad handwriting on the wall:

_His only sin was that he wasn't you  
Forgive me all my trespasses  
Come back to me_

Wolfwood said nothing. Vash turned to the officers in the room. "Mind if we have a minute here, fellas?" he asked.

They cleared out and Vash turned to study his partner's profile, which was granite save for the muscle flexing in his jaw. "I'd tell you it's not for you if it would make you feel better," he said, "but I don't think you'd believe me."

"I wouldn't."

"The victim was a hustler named Bret Favre. He was 19. He'd been arrested for possession of marijuana so we had him on file." He handed over the mug shot silently.

When Wolfwood didn't say anything, Vash filled the silence. "I don't have to tell you that he could have been your brother, do I?"

"No, you don't."

Vash rubbed at his face. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."

"And what _exactly_ do you think I'm thinking?"

"I don't know _what_, but I know it isn't good!" Vash snapped and then fell silent. It was a moment before he spoke again. "The truth is that whoever did this isn't human. Look at the _wall_ and you can see that. Old Man Cain says there wasn't a single cut on the body. Favre was _ripped_ into four, perfect pieces and nobody laid a hand on him. And the only thing he did wrong was look like you and be in the wrong place."

"Was this all photographed? Are there copies on my desk?"

Vash's face fell and then pulled together into a frown. "Don't change the subject."

Wolfwood wheeled on him. "And what am I _supposed _to say? I didn't think this would happen when I left! What should I say?"

"Something! Anything!" His arms flailed and then fell to his sides limply. "Partner, you're in over your head again."

Wolfwood's sudden burst of humorless laughter was a surprise even to himself. "Oh, _again_. Yeah, I guess I never learn."

Vash winced, looked out the window at the grubby street filled with cops and reporters below and then looked back at Wolfwood. "Nobody will believe that this was Picasso. This doesn't fit his style. This victim was male, and a prostitute. And yeah, his body was mutilated, but not in the usual way. Then there's the_...massacre _downstairs. Twelve victims total, and if there were any witnesses, they're not coming forward."

"Can you blame them?"

"No," Vash answered. "Then there's a cryptic message on the wall that nobody can make heads or tails of, and no reason to search for a weapon since our forensics team says the killer didn't use one. What this _looks_ like is a new spree killer, not our famous serial killer. The media knows Picasso's style by now. He's calculating and methodical and predictable. This doesn't fit the bill. To be honest, _I _barely believe this is by the same perp."

"You and I both know it is."

"Yeah, and we're the _only_ ones who know what's going on. _Again_," Vash said with a voice like a volcano about to erupt. "And I'm too late to stop it from happening, _again_."

Vash's face was blotchy with anger and Wolfwood held up his hands palms first. "Nothing like that is going to—"

"It already has," Vash said suddenly then turned on his heels and walked to the door. He paused there and then spoke quietly over his shoulder. "I can't think straight to talk to you about this right now. But this conversation isn't over. And if you dare use yourself as bait again, _I'll _hunt you down myself."

He left Wolfwood standing alone beside the cross that had been made from a body being ripped into quarters. Wolfwood turned back and studied the words meant for him. _Forgive me all my trespasses._

It was quite awhile before he was able to go home. Even after he felt satisfied that everything had been combed over completely, he still had to go back to the department to see how bad the damage was to his inbox. It turned out to be very bad indeed. And the phone calls wouldn't stop. Vash didn't come anywhere near his office for the rest of the day and Wolfwood was silently thankful. He didn't know what to say to him.

Finally, he decided to call it a night. The week had drained him and he was barely sitting up straight at his desk. Darting back and forth across the country like a ping-pong ball was taking its toll.

The squad car that had picked him up at the airport dropped him off at home in the last hours of evening. Darkness was stretching itself across the light like a cat settling down to sleep. Wolfwood thanked the driver, waved him away and then stood motionless in the center of his lawn with his small bag resting on his shoulder. His empty, dark house was hardly the welcome he wanted. He considered his garage door and imagined that he could see his battered car slumbering inside with what was left of the paint job crusting off like an exoskeleton.

He turned to face the street where the only activity was the lazy dinner traffic out of the city and into the suburbs. He shook his head and felt the corners of his mouth pull up in a humorless smile.

"Well," he said softly and then repeated it, loudly: "Well."

For some reason, he laughed.

"I'm back, you son of a bitch," he said. "Is that what you wanted? I'm back and you win. I'm not going anywhere. Are you happy now?" His lean body was a sudden blur of motion as he whirled and heaved his duffel against his front door. It smacked against the glass, which didn't break but only by some miracle. Seething, he turned away from the street and stalked over to retrieve it. The door closed behind him with a _bang_ that made the birds stream out of a nearby tree and into the sky.

Picasso watched them for a moment and then looked back at the quiet front of Detective's house. His fingers were twitching sporadically and he swallowed convulsively a few times before he could speak.

"Yes," he said. "I am."

To be continued...

And thanks to readers and reviewers, as always.

Up Next: It wasn't so long ago. It was still fresh in his mind even though the scars had healed. He could remember it all.


	20. Manhunt

Warnings: Not beta-read. Strong language, out of character behavior, homosexual situations, violence, BDSM, slight non-con if you squint at it. Angst. Oh, so much angst.

The story so far: Wolfwood and Vash are trying to catch the serial killer known as Picasso. The suspect they call "Blondie" has become their number one mark though Vash suspects he isn't working alone. The investigation has forced Wolfwood to confront his own checkered past and caused Picasso to develop a dangerous obsession with him. When Wolfwood left the city for a few days, Picasso massacred a dozen people at a club in anger and left a strange message for Wolfwood on the wall. The story continues...

* * *

Part XXXII: Manhunt

* * *

Wolfwood and Vash were spending a lot of time on the phone. Even if they weren't really talking to each other, they were talking to everyone else. It was beginning to seem like their cell phones were just extensions of their arms. At one point they juggled phones so much—passing them back and forth and running from room to room—that it was two hours before they realized they had each other's cell phones. They met in the hallway between their offices and the room that had been temporarily set up to accept calls regarding Ray Hawthorn. 

"Some girl named 'Lina' called," Wolfwood said, holding Vash's phone with a raised brow.

"Your dry cleaning is ready," Vash replied. He handed over Wolfwood's cell and waited with his hand outstretched. "Well?" he asked when Wolfwood didn't move.

"Who's Lina?" Wolfwood leered.

"Oh, just give me the phone!" He snatched it from Wolfwood's hand with a barely hidden smile and then stalked back to his office. Wolfwood watched him go with a quirk to his lips. "Womanizer!" he shouted and it resounded down the hall.

"Clean freak!" Vash called back.

Wolfwood found himself cherishing that exchange because, for just a second, things had been okay between them. He wondered if that moment was all he could hope for today.

He returned to the hotline and read over paperwork and reports while the phones blared all around him. This room had been a meeting room a week ago, of that Wolfwood was certain. But Vash had rigged it into a communication hub worthy of the FBI, with telephones littering every surface above and wires twisting into a tangle below. Any chair that wasn't in use in the station was shoved into the room and any personnel that could be spared manned the phones. The buzz of voices from the room was overwhelming, like a waterfall of sound. Listening to half-conversations was always a little confusing and very amusing. Wolfwood was now certain that three days of answering phones and listening to 'tips' and reported sightings was enough to make the most friendly of people turn a little cynical. Especially when some of the tips were so unbelievable. They'd had thousands of calls in the past two days. Blondie had been seen everywhere from a convenience store to a Kinko's Copy Center. What the most wanted man in the state would be doing making a resume when a citywide manhunt was on, Wolfwood didn't know. Weeding through the probable leads and plain ridiculous ones was a headache, but a necessary one.

"On the corner of Seventh and Rowe?" a woman with a high-pitched voice asked. "Buying a slushy? That's very helpful, thank you. In your opinion, did he or did he not get a brain freeze?"

A chubby man from PR pinched his nose and said, "Sir, I'm certain it's true that your mailman looks _a lot _like him, but I doubt that he'd still be delivering your bills with the entire police force out looking for him..."

Wolfwood kept an ear turned to their voices as he read his reports, ready for someone to give him a lead worth pursuing.

In the thick folder resting on his lap was a long report from the Hale Beach PD. It seemed that they had been busy little bees in his absence. The search of Blondie's house had turned up enough evidence to put Hawthorn behind bars for a very, very long time. There were traits about serial killers that every would-be homicide detective read about at academy. Blondie, if he was their guy, was different in some unusual ways, but right on track with others.

For example, most serial killers, it was agreed, secretly want to be caught. That was practically rule number one. The Picasso murders didn't fit with that rule as the killer had gone out of his way to keep the police from getting involved.

Rule number two on the other hand, seemed to apply. Rule number two was that serial killers love nothing more than to read about their crimes and see their work on TV. Hawthorn was no different. He was a record-keeper. He had carefully collected and saved clippings and articles—over three years worth—and archived them. Wolfwood had already contacted Hale Beach to let them know he'd be out to look over the scene and any of their finds within the next two days. It was the only window he had as the woman in their holding cell, Dominique Kuklos, was being transferred to the women's penitentiary to await trial in three days time. She still wasn't talking in regards to her relationship with Hawthorn or where he might be, but there was more than enough evidence from phone records and witness reports to prove that she had willfully and deliberately interfered with a police investigation. Detective Pasina and the officers from Hale Beach were hoping that a few more days in the hold would loosen her tongue, but Wolfwood wasn't so confident. He got the feeling that she was one of those dangerously loyal types. She'd be willing to burn for something she believed in. Whatever Hawthorn was to her, she was prepared to go down for him.

As for the abundance of fingerprints found at the scene, his team was working with them, but it wasn't going well. They'd known for a long time that Ray Hawthorn wasn't Blondie's real name, but they hadn't realized how difficult it would be to track down who he really was. He was good at what he did. A chameleon. Kaite had his nose buried in work already, but Wolfwood didn't mind inconveniencing him if things got sticky with tagging this guy.

Wolfwood flipped to the next report and stifled his shiver. The report was in regards to the factory where Vash had been crucified. Though there was even more to learn from it, the image of Vash crucified was one that tormented him.

According to the report, Hawthorn had apparently been using the place to dump evidence. There was proof that someone had been using an old furnace in the basement to burn things. It had been used as recently as a month ago though it was difficult to determine exactly what had been destroyed. There was also a small area on the top floor that was arranged like a bedroom. There was even a mattress and a hot plate. Vash had been right: Blondie had known that warehouse from before and driven there in a panic in hopes that someone would help him. This left Wolfwood wondering whether or not the place had ever really been Blondie's. He had gone there looking for help. Wolfwood bit his lip.

Help from someone...

Help from someone...

Maybe the person who had really used it was...

"And that was today?" a voice said suddenly. Wolfwood looked up at the sound of fingers snapping rapidly and loudly. An elderly woman in glasses was staring at him and gesturing frantically. He hurried to her side and waited while she listened to the caller and scribbled on a piece of paper. "Is he there now?" she asked.

A second later and she tore the piece of paper off and gave it to Wolfwood. "Hold on a moment, sir," she said to the caller and then said to Wolfwood, "Go get 'em, Detective."

He smiled at her, turned and walked away, and then came back quickly to give her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Edna. You know you're my favorite girl."

"That's what you say to all the ladies," she said, but blushed anyway. "And take this one, too!" She shoved another piece of paper into his hand and shooed him away.

Wolfwood jogged down the hallway. He leaned around the door of Vash's office. "Come on, partner. We're moving out!"

Five minutes later and the pair of them were standing in the garage and looking at all the black and white. Wolfwood leaned on the roof of what was to be his squad car for the day while Vash leaned against the driver's side door of his own beat-up Jeep.

"I miss my car," Wolfwood said flippantly.

"Aren't you supposed to be a church-going man? Worldly possessions shouldn't be your thing," Vash said. It was in the tone of voice he always used when he was joking with Wolfwood, but it was forced.

"Yes, but the Lord appreciates beauty," Wolfwood countered. "I haven't rolled in the black in white this much since I was a rookie with my T.O." Wolfwood waited with his breath held. It was a deliberate hook, a familiar topic that he and Vash always laughed and joked about: Wolfwood's hardnosed training officer and his shenanigans. If Vash took the bait, then things weren't really so bad between them. If he didn't...

Vash pushed away from the car door, opened it, and stepped up into the seat. "Let's move out. These leads aren't getting any warmer."

Stung, Wolfwood could only shove away from the roof of the squad car and climb inside. Vash was willing to pretend that things were okay, but only to a certain degree. Oddly, he got the feeling that Vash wasn't exactly mad _at_ him, but more upset with a bad situation that wasn't getting any better. He was trying to cope the same as Wolfwood, but the strain was getting to them both. It didn't wear so well on Vash's thin shoulders.

They took to the street, Vash with one destination and Wolfwood with another. Wolfwood felt the loss of his partner acutely. Investigations are always easier with two pairs of eyes to see and two pairs of ears to listen. And even with things strained between them, he was fairly certain Vash felt the same. Still, the two of them acting separately meant they could cover more ground. Behind Vash was a secondary patrol car. True to his word, Wolfwood wasn't about to let his partner go out solo when Picasso had proved himself willing to use Vash for his own agenda.

In fact, Wolfwood sent the extra unit with Vash despite how spread thin the department was these days. He had his priorities.

Wolfwood's witness turned out to be a young guy—twenty or so—who worked at a gas station.

"I've been seeing that poster, like, everyday," he said and wiped his hands on a rag. "Man, you can't go anywhere without seeing it, so when he pulled in I was like, 'Yeah, that's totally him, dude.'"

"And you got a good look at the car he was driving?"

"Yeah, for sure. It was an ancient Mazda. Grey. There was a dent in the driver's side door."

"Plates?"

"Just a temporary one in the back window. You know, like the kind they give to people waiting for new plates? I wrote the number down and all, but I dunno if it's right." He handed Wolfwood a receipt with a scrawled number on the back. Wolfwood took it, got the man's contact information, thanked him, and left. He radioed what he knew the minute he was in the car and got the ball rolling in that corner, and then called Vash.

They met halfway at a diner and grabbed a quick lunch while they talked over what they knew. As always, they placed their cell phones in the center of the table and waited for them to ring with something. _Anything_.

"He's driving a grey Mazda. Did you hear?" Wolfwood took a bite of his hamburger. Across from him Vash destroyed a chocolate shake and dipped French fries into it when he thought Wolfwood wasn't looking. Wolfwood thought it was gross; Vash thought it was grub.

"I heard. Did you get any more on that?"

He answered around a mouthful, "Just guesswork. He filled her up, so chances are Blondie's making a run for the border."

"He can't get out of the city," Vash said and sucked down a fry. "We've got every road out of here blocked off. We're so spread thin, I've called in favors I'll be paying off for years. I even asked the Highway Patrol to help. For the past three days, people all over the city have parked where they wanted for as long as they wanted and sped like demons and there was nobody to stop them because all the meter maids and patrolmen are out hunting for a serial killer!"

The lines around Wolfwood's eyes crinkled as Vash continued his tirade. "I've never organized a manhunt this big. I've never _seen_ a manhunt this big. Our perp will have to die his hair black, get a facial tattoo and a nose ring then start calling himself 'Biff' to get anywhere near the border."

Wolfwood made a sudden lunge for his cell phone and held it to his ear. "I need an APB on a Caucasian male with a nose ring and a facial tattoo. Died black hair. I repeat: died black hair. He should answer to the name 'Biff.' All meter maids be on alert! Be prepared to write him a ticket for a parking violation and bad hair dye!" He tried not to laugh but couldn't hold it back when Vash started throwing fries at him. He ducked, but they kept coming.

"Waste of food! I give, I give!"

Vash pulled his arm back, saving the fry in his hand from the fate of its brothers. "Yeah, well you better. The shake was next." Wolfwood dusted salt off his blazer and said, "You're no fun, Saverem. Okay, tell me about your lead."

"Oh, yeah. Guy at the pawnshop on Oakley gave him fifty dollars for a watch yesterday. Of course, he only saw the posters saying he's a wanted man _today_."

"More proof that the world's a shitty place," Wolfwood sighed. He tried to take another bite of his burger, but was interrupted by a call from the crime lab regarding the massacre at Club Illusion. A minute later and Vash had several calls in a row from PR about the department's "official statement" concerning the same. They had to turn away from each other and plug one ear to block the noise from the other man's conversation. Wolfwood's call finished first so he listened as Vash tried to control the media's interference. He was sure there would be a nasty note from Chief Bennigan on his desk shortly about him holding up his end of the bargain regarding the press, but he really didn't care. He was too busy with actual _police work_ to play poster boy and scapegoat. Vash wasn't exactly twiddling his thumbs, either. This time, the newspapers were going to have to get their story from the regular old channels. Officer Strife was going to be very busy in PR.

Vash and Wolfwood were back on the street less than twenty minutes later, chasing leads across the city like bloodhounds.

By early evening, the two of them looked rumpled and ragged. Even Wolfwood had lost his jacket in the back of the squad car in an attempt to beat the heat. Vash's shirt stuck to him like flypaper. They returned to the station, and staggered back to the hotline for an update and then to Wolfwood's office.

With the door closed behind them and Vash looking at him wearily, Wolfwood mused over how everything had seemed so normal for a large part of the day and how it now seemed to be over. With a case to work on, things had felt like old times again. They had put their heads together, tracked Hawthorn across the city, narrowed his potential locations, and gathered enough evidence to put him away once they caught the bastard. They'd done it together, just like always. But now the day was coming to an end and there were a lot of things that had to be discussed. Vash was obviously still upset about Wolfwood's trip to Santa Rosa and his seemingly indifferent attitude about the fact that he was being stalked by a killer and in obvious danger. He was also upset that Wolfwood wasn't about to let anyone know that the message on the wall at Club Illusion—indeed, the massacre itself—had been yet another message for him. Wolfwood understood his anger, but he'd rather have his forgiveness.

He took his seat behind the desk, grabbed one of his pens and drummed it on his blotter. Vash only stood there instead of taking his usual spot across from him. His face was too pale and the scar on his forehead was still surrounded by purple and red. His sleeves hid the bandages on his wrists and Wolfwood was glad to not have to see them. "You ready to talk to me now, or are you still pissed?" he asked after the silence started to bother him.

Vash looked surprised at the blunt question. "I...I'm not," he admitted. "I'm sorry, I can't...I don't..." He ran a frustrated hand through his blonde spikes. "Look, I've got some paperwork to finish and a couple of calls to make. I'll...talk to you later." With that, he turned on his heels and walked out of the room and Wolfwood felt a tiny cord inside him snap.

Vash had never refused to talk to him for this long before, even when he was spitting mad enough to swear. That he had done so today proved to Wolfwood that he really didn't completely understand the depths of Vash's heart and mind. They had almost been back to friendly terms today for the first time since he came back from Santa Rosa. That friendliness apparently didn't extend to discussing the problem and clearing the air.

Vash when he was hurt or trying not to hurt someone else...

He closed up, shut out, walked away. It was true that no one else in the world was as willing to give and give and give without wanting anything in return like Vash was. But when things got too much for even his patience and kindness to take, he was as unavailable as snow in summer.

Wolfwood felt the sting of Vash's refusal worse than he might have any other day. After the week he'd had, he felt like he was suffocating. Vash had walked away at exactly the one time Wolfwood needed him to stay.

It was the only time Vash had ever let him down. It was the only time that mattered.

* * *

He wasn't sleeping. He _couldn't _sleep. It teased him, flickering at the corners of his mind, but it never really came. Every time he felt himself sinking into its embrace, he was pulled back by thoughts and specters of memories. So he lay on his back in bed, staring at the wide shadow of ceiling without really seeing it. There was a faint light squirming its way through the curtains over his window, but it shied away from the ceiling like a schoolgirl. His eyes moving over the dark shapes, perceiving horrors that weren't really there. 

The clock on the wall ticked and echoed in the silence. His mind danced to the rhythm, swirling across the floor of memories and dipping and swaying in their beats.

Even Vash didn't believe in him anymore.

At midnight, he sat up.

_You're an idiot, _he thought. _A complete fucking idiot._

It was true, he was thinking foolish things.

But his old chief had told him that a fool could only ever be a fool. He laughed out loud and his own voice was shattering to the silence.

_So, _he reasoned_, if you're a fool, then be a fool_. He tossed the blankets off and stood to greet the dark.

* * *

Wolfwood remembered distinctly the night Milly had called him in a panic. She hadn't told him what was wrong, but she had wanted to go somewhere lively. He had easily settled on a comfortable bar he knew and headed there. But when he had reached a certain corner, he remembered feeling the urge to turn the other way. To come here, instead. Even when he was with Milly who made him feel normal, he was still who he was. Even when it was _Milly_ who was so safe and easy to be with because she didn't know things about him that he didn't want her to—even she couldn't break him of this. But Picasso had done a very good job at driving a wedge between them and now Milly was hidden away safe and terrified. 

And Vash was probably sleeping soundly in his neglected apartment, happy that his day with Wolfwood was finally over.

As for Picasso, who knew where he was? Maybe he was here, watching. Wolfwood was startled by his own thoughts. He frowned. _Picasso_, he had thought. Not Blondie. He knew for a fact now that the two were not the same man, just like Vash had said. One of these men was all but in jail with nowhere to run. The other was free and completely unsuspected, killing people to control Wolfwood. Control where he went, control what he did.

But tonight, Wolfwood didn't feel like being controlled by Picasso.

Tonight, there was no Milly, no Vash, and as for Picasso...fuck him.

The way was clear. There had been nothing to stop him from turning the corner and going where it led him now. Nothing at all.

It wasn't a generic club. Not even the air was commonplace. I smelled of more than just sweat and liquor. The air was a drugging combination of sex and abuse and fear that rattled the mind and excited the body. Unlike most clubs where the music was overpowering, this music was as subdued as the lighting. Not rock and roll or hip-hop, but an eerie mix of emo, goth and classical. Everything was melancholy with a taste of anger. If you didn't turn your ear to one of the towering speakers classily disguised around the room behind tapestries and wall hangings, you'd miss the words to the song, though you'd always be sure they were about pain and loss.

He'd come here many times since he first arrived in July, but only to test himself. He would come, order a drink and watch the floor and the movements around the room with a practiced eye and a carefully constructed air of disinterest. Here and there, men and the occasional scantily clad woman met, danced, discussed, and then disappeared to someplace beyond the bead and cloth covered doors. They wouldn't come back. Wolfwood watched them, paid attention to how they dressed, how they smiled and teased and understood without having to ask who was doing what to who and why. And there he would sit for the night, resisting and denying and ignoring the whispered urgings from his own body. Later, he could congratulate himself on doing so well, on not giving in even when the offers were so persuasive. Even if he had to go home at night and take a shower immediately, he had done it. He had walked away from the temptation on his own feet and proven to himself and to...

And to...

To _himself_, that he didn't _need_ what he wanted and that he was strong enough to refuse it even when it was right before his eyes. Every time he did it chipped a piece of his piece of mind away, but he imagined that the armor he had built around himself felt tougher, somehow. If he could keep fighting, he'd become so untouchable that he'd never hurt anyone again by his weakness. He'd never put anyone in danger again if he could just fight it.

He was tired of fighting.

The night was promising. Judging by the interested gazes he could feel on his back, he wouldn't have to fight at all tonight.

This one had wide-set eyes and a jaw that was too square, but somehow he was handsome, like one of those overly defined models in the magazines. He was tall and just a little chubby around the middle, but it didn't take away from the man's overall appeal. And when he finally approached him, he would lie about his name and his age and his job, and that was fine too.

He was straightforward. He only stared at Wolfwood for ten minutes before sending over a drink. Wolfwood raised an eyebrow at the bartender when he sat a large tumbler of amber liquid before him.

"From your friend back there," he said with a knowing lift to his eyebrow. Wolfwood looked over—through the dark, smoky fog of the room—raised the tumbler in thanks and then downed it in a single gulp. Hell, he wasn't on duty.

The stranger waited a fair amount of time, as if making sure his intentions were understood or giving he alcohol in Wolfwood's system time to work its magic. When he first spoke to Wolfwood, it was from behind him, pressed against him breathing deeply against his neck. He must have woven his way through the press of barely-clad bodies to reach him.

It was all so familiar. Like the tang of blood in his mouth and the sound of his flesh splitting in the wake of a blur of leather. _I'm sorry_, he thought, glad that the man the words were meant for was nowhere near to hear them.

He leaned back into the solid weight behind him, closed his eyes, and let go.

* * *

Three O'clock in the morning. In Wolfwood's house, a phone was ringing—a persistent kind of chirp-like nuisance. The machine picked it up, but the caller didn't leave a message. 

Less than thirty seconds later, the black cell phone in the pocket of Wolfwood's pants began to buzz gently. Because of where Wolfwood was in relation to his clothing, he didn't hear it. Nor did he hear it the second time. Or the third.

Eventually, the calls stopped, but the night went on.

* * *

The club was a labyrinth of smoky corridors and dark corners. He didn't feel out of place. And he wasn't afraid. 

Because two minutes more and he'd be there. Just two minutes. The noise from the club didn't disturb him. Not the sounds of stifled screams behind closed doors, nor the drugged music struggling from speakers. He was perfectly focused. Down this long hallway there was a door and behind it...

In just one minute...

Forty-five seconds...

Thirty seconds...

His breathing was deep and even, his mind calm.

He came to a halt before the door and stared in surprise as sounds came through it unlike the ones he had expected.

At first, he decided that he didn't care and raised his hand towards the doorknob. Then, just as suddenly, he moved back, silent as a cat's footfalls on new snow.

* * *

The room was dark, but not quiet. There were keening noises, heavy pants, and the snap, snap, crack of leather striking flesh. 

This was the kind of sub he'd only ever read about, the kind that could take _anything_. They were the most dangerous—to themselves and their Doms—because they didn't know their own limits or didn't bloody _have_ limits and so they wouldn't stop you. All guys like this know how to do is ask for _more_. If a Dom didn't have extreme self-control, it was all too easy to get carried away.

For the first time since he began getting off on making other men feel small and weak, he felt his self-control slip away.

The man before him was _beautiful_. Even for the old scars covering his back, he was powerfully built and long. Someone who didn't have his experience might think his sub was weak for being so lean and wiry, but he could see the strength in his muscles, feel it in how the whip responded when it hit. He wanted to give him more pain, to see how long he could take it. His eyes strayed to the cat-'o-nine-tails displayed prominently on a rack against the wall. To the paddle hanging beneath it. He could untie him, bend him over, paddle his ass red and then sink into it...

Or he could use the wall and the convenient hooks, stretch him out wide and scar the rest of him.

So many options. What he wanted more than anything was for tonight to go on forever.

"Do you like this?" he grunted. "Do you want to beg for more?"

Only the sound of uneven, stifled breathing came in response to the whip's merciless rhythm. "I said," he ground out and dug his fingers into the sweat-dampened hair of the man bound on his knees before him, "do you want to beg?" With the hand holding the whip, he tugged the gag away from his sub's mouth. He tugged at the hair until the man rose up onto his knees. His neck was arched back at an awkward angle.

"Yes," came in a scratched, painful-sounding voice.

"Then beg." He released him roughly and let him fall back. Then he lifted his arm high—higher than ever before—felt the muscles in his thick arm bunch, ready to make it hurt, to make this one howl. He was harder than he'd ever been in his life. The cost to use the room was worth it. Everything was worth it for the chance to have someone like this, someone who would never, ever say no.

His arm started to come down, but it never finished the motion.

"I think that's enough," a voice said and it was dangerously calm.

"How the hell did you get in here?" he shouted then gasped in pain when the grip around his wrist tightened. He hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't heard anything at all. He still couldn't beyond the red-streaked stretch of flesh before his eyes. Lust built to a fever pitch and liquor clouded his brain to the point that he seemed unaware of the danger the other man radiated.

"I said, I think that's enough."

"Lemme go. He asked for it rough. And hell he can take it. Besides, I saw him first. You can have him when I'm finished."

"When you're finished?"

"S'what I said."

"Hmm. Lucky for me, you're finished _now_."

There was a blur of motion when the larger man wasn't quite sure which way was up and why he seemed to be soaring through the air and why his wrist felt broken. When he hit, he understood the reason why for the shortest moment before everything before his eyes went first red, then black.

The man on the floor had slumped forward, his abused back facing the newcomer. He didn't react when nimble fingers undid the bonds at his wrists, nor did he seem to notice that his back was a violent shade of red from blisters and bleeding in places. In fact, he only made a noise—half moan, have grunt—when he was rolled over so that his head fell into the other man's lap. His pulse was taken efficiently.

Long, familiar fingers against his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

"You came," Wolfwood wheezed.

"I always will," Vash answered.

* * *

Everything came in flashes. A car ride and the sudden realization that his back was on fire. Everything outside the car window took on a blurry green tint and he felt like he was going to be sick. A voice was talking to him. It was the voice that always made him feel safe. He'd heard it once before when he was in even more pain than this. He remembered that voice. 

"You know these roads better than me," it said. There was affection there and a note of worry. "But I can get us home."

Then the flash was of a squat apartment building, all ivy-covered brick. He felt the contents of his stomach leave him while he was being tugged and dragged across the lawn to the front door. There was no food; just booze and it stung worse on the way back up.

"You're going to be pissed about that shirt tomorrow. You really like it."

Then there was the excruciating trip up the steps when the voice explained the elevators hadn't worked in over a week.

The arms around him were gentle. He felt as if he could sleep wrapped in them, safe from the world. Just sleep...

"Whoa, whoa! Not here, buddy! Come on! Up, up! Just a little more! See that door?"

It swam before his eyes, but he tried to nod.

"Good! See! You can walk it! You can do it! With me now: one, two, one, two..."

A jangling sound and then a click like a door opening. There was a moment when his support seemed to slip. He heard a loud thud and gasped as pain racked his body. He almost went sideways, but then strong arms wrapped around him once again. "Stupid cat!" the familiar voice said. "Are you okay? Sorry, I tripped over the cat. But we're inside now. See? It's not too clean, but you're hardly in any condition to complain."

The vague impression of a room swam before his eyes. "Unnnhmmm," he said, trying to make his lips move.

"Good, good! So I'll just—ooof!—lock the door aaaaand..."

He felt weightless, juggled back and forth from one long arm to the next. He heard keys landing on a table, sliding off and then crashing into something.

"Mrow!"

"Serves you right for jumping right in front of them! Stupid cat."

"Nnn't shout."

"Oh, sorry. You're head must be killing you. Okay, around this way...to the left. And then we can move here...watch the carpet right there. You're doing fine, just fine."

The voice was like that of an encouraging teacher and he appreciated the kindness, but couldn't believe the praise. A corner of his pain-soaked brain was telling him that he wasn't really helping at all. He couldn't feel his legs to move them. There was no strength in his arms and the scorching heat in his back made him wish he were dead.

"Right in here, right in here. Easy, easy."

The world tilted and it seemed as if only a vice-like grip around each of his wrists kept him from falling through one side of it and crashing into the other. Everything seemed so quiet now, time holding still as his legs hit the bed. But the minute his back touched the soft blankets on the mattress, he howled.

"Nick! God!"

The flash was of his mind fluttering white once before fuzzing to black.

When he came to, someone was cradling his head and holding a glass of cool, cool water to his lips. He tried to gulp it and gagged.

"Nah-ah, slow."

"Nn' kay."

"You promise?"

"Mm."

"Okay, here. But slow."

Now there was a lazy, chilled trickle of water going down his soar throat, washing away the acid taste of vomit. A minute later, and he felt a momentary shock of cold sting flare on his back, followed by soothing numbness. Whatever it was, it was miraculous. He couldn't feel anything now. There was no reason to stay awake with the pain gone. He could rest once it all just went away. A quite, whispered voice spoke to him as he dozed away.

"I'm sorry. I know this is my fault. If I had just tried to explain..." His voice was thick and heavy. It wavered a little as he spoke. "I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself, but you know that already. And I wish I could help you, but you won't let me. I was so mad at you back then," he said on a whispered chuckle and Wolfwood felt a gentle hand brush damp hair away from his eyes. "You went out and got yourself into so much trouble and I know you had your reasons. But I was pretty selfish and I guess I liked having you around. You were the only one who cared when I was falling apart and then you were gone. Just like that. I felt like there was nothing I could do. Maybe you don't know how much it hurt feeling powerless like that. And now it's happening all over again. But this time, it's not really your fault, is it?"

When Wolfwood didn't answer back, he sighed and continued. "I know you didn't hang a target on yourself to get Picasso's attention. You didn't have to do anything, did you? You just...are. I guess something like that would get to anybody. I guess you panicked. I guess you maybe even gave up a little. " A hand stroked down Wolfwood's bare shoulder and then squeezed it, almost too tight. "Tell me: if I hadn't come for you tonight, who would have?"

He let unconsciousness lay claim to him before he could answer. It was easier that way. Maybe, like Alice, he could dream the day away and find everything okay once he returned. Only when he tipped himself into this rabbit hole, the other side was no wonderland, but just another memory. The kind voice of his caretaker led him to it and then sleep closed all the doors and forced him to stay and watch a time he preferred to forget.

But it wasn't so long ago. If he were honest, it was still fresh in his mind even though the scars had healed long ago beneath the new ones. He could remember it all.

* * *

There was a roar of cheers and applause the minute he walked into the station. The men and women of the New Main Department catcalled and whistled as Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood strutted into the room. 

"Signed, sealed, delivered!" a sergeant named Takahashi cried out. Wolfwood gave him an enthusiastic high five.

A rookie named Darby who fancied himself a comedian snuck up next to Wolfwood and, using his spoon from lunch as a makeshift microphone, raised his voice five octaves and mimicked a popular news reporter. He threw in a few breathy giggles and exclamations now and then to make the impersonation complete. "I'm Lindsey Walker with Channel Five News reporting live from outside the Blair County Courthouse where the Bay Bridge trial came to a dramatic end just an hour ago. _Tee-hee!_ In the last days of the trial, Detective Wolfwood of the MCPD gave a 'Strong testimony' which 'confirmed his status as a rising star in the department'. _Ohhhhh! _The DA reports that the Bay Bridge Killer's conviction depended entirely on evidence submitted by Detective Wolfwood, the department's own poster boy and sex symbol. Jurors commented that they really didn't know what was going on during the trial as they were too busy fantasizing about the detective. Laundry services were provided for all jurors who were overwhelmed by his animal magnetism and needed to wash their panties, boxers and briefs after his testimony." He had to pause long enough to dance out of the way before Wolfwood could kick him. He ducked behind desks and co-workers to avoid a red-faced fuming detective. Standing atop a table near the water cooler, he continued his routine around his own laughter and over that of his co-workers, his falsetto voice cracking.

"_This_ reporter agrees that while he is a handsome stud, his nose is too big for his face and his accent sounds like a drowning cat." Wolfwood made a lunge for him. It was a close shave.

"Ow! Watch the blue, Detective! This uniform is sacred! Serve and Protect!"

The chase continued with Darby flying around the room and using any free surface to stand on and continue his roast, cheered on by his colleagues. "Just three months after a successful joint investigation with the FBI which led to the arrest of the Brookside Strangler, Detective Wolfwood seems unstoppable! _Rwrrrow! You Sexy Beast! _Many believe it's the power of his nose that leads him to these dangerous killers! This reporter thinks genetic experiments are responsible for such a wonkin' honker. We must all give our thanks to modern science for creating such wonders. Oh! Too slow, Detective! When asked what he'll be doing now that the trial is over, the detective replied, 'I'm going to Disneyworld!' To thank him for his services, the department will be paying the entrance fee for his nose, which counts as a small child all on its own. Sadly, it can't go on the Dumbo ride because it's too big."

He tried some fancy footwork, but this time _he_ was too slow; Wolfwood got him in a headlock.

"Ow, ow, ow! This move is against regulations! It says so in the _handbook! _ Leggo, leggo, leggo!"

"Hit 'em!" someone shouted.

In the corner, a secretary with bouffant hair suddenly stood up and quieted the room. "Shhh! Shhh! They're playing it again!"

Darby still in a headlock, the room went silent.

Over her tiny red radio, the voice of the prosecuting attorney could be heard. "It's been a good day," he said and the smile in his voice was palpable. "I know that _I'll _sleep better at night knowing that Allen Garcia, the so-called 'Butcher of Bay Bridge,' is going to jail for a long time. Once again, I want to extend my sincere thanks to Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood of the MCPD and to all the other officers involved in the trial. Thanks to their diligent work, we had an airtight case against Garcia. I believe that Detective Wolfwood is an invaluable asset to the force. Also, this trial wouldn't have gone so smoothly without Judge Tanya Carter. Judge Carter is a fair-minded..."

There was a moan through the station. "Ah, turn it off already! He's gonna start babbling about Carter again. We heard the good part!"

"Ungle! Ungle! Lemme gwo ah cnt bweath!"

"Oh, shit. Sorry Darby," Wolfwood said and didn't look like he meant a word of it. He patted the young rookie on his back with too much force. "You don't look so good. We oughtta get some water into you, boy!"

"You're an _animal,_" Darby gasped, then wandered off to lick his wounds and have a drink. The rest of the department with free time to spare crowded around Wolfwood and chatted animatedly about the trial and the news coverage.

Sergeant Takahashi punched Wolfwood on the arm. "Did you hear that? 'Diligent'! The MCPD! Diligent!"

Wolfwood laughed about _that_ all the way to his desk where he threw down his jacket and leaned against the nearest wall with a self-satisfied air.

A redheaded captain named Henly laughed as she perched on the corner of his desk. "No, wait, that's not the best part! Did you catch the '_Sincere_ thanks'? _Sincere!_ And Detective, why, you're an _invaluable asset! _You know, that lawyer, what's his name?"

"McConnelly," the secretary shouted with a self-satisfied smirk. She had followed the trial more closely than most and that was saying something since the whole city had been glued to their screens.

"Yeah, Mr. Fancy DA's Office McConnelly," Henly leered. "He's _awful_ handsome. _And _I hear he's not married."

From all around where Wolfwood stood came a suggestive "Ohhhhhhh!" like the kind children make at school when the lights are turned down for the movie.

A beat cop named Gonzalez elbowed Wolfwood. "Hey, you think maybe he sweet on you?" he said with a mischievous smirk.

Wolfwood held up his hands. "Hey, hey! Not my type at all! First off all, he's missing a pair of twins up top and has too many legs down below." There was a general groan from around the room.

"Not even close to clever. You're slippin', Nick," Henly said and slapped him on the arm. "Beers tonight at Harper's, you in?"

"Hell yeah I'll be there, but I won't be buying my own celebration rounds, you hear?"

"Like we'd let such an 'invaluable _ass_et' pay for his own beers."

"You know, I can do to you what I did to Darby. I don't care that you're a woman."

Henly shrugged. "Oh, baby," she deadpanned. "Talk to me dirty. I like it rough. Yawn."

The chaos settled down after a few more earnest congratulations from friends and Wolfwood was free to get some work down. He flipped through the messages on his desk and then glanced quickly at the clock. There was a departmental meeting in three hours. Apparently, they were getting a new batch of officers and introductions were on the docket. It would be a tight squeeze trying to make it to meet them; he had an appointment with the DA that would probably cut in. Well, the Chief would forgive him for being late. He usually did.

Besides, trainees were always the same. Wolfwood had been one once, too. Meeting the new batch would only emphasize the fact that they were all snot-nosed, nervous, ham-handed kids. If that ever changed, Wolfwood guessed it would be when hell froze over.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Ahh, the sounds of hell freezing over. Fun! Anyway, in case you were wondering, yes, here begins the Patented AU Fanfiction Extended Flashback Sequence. AKA: Everything you never wanted to know about Wolfwood's kinky past. If the events three years don't interest you, just skip the next few chapters and we'll get back to your regularly scheduled Picasso investigation. 

Favorite Line from this one: "Tell me: if I hadn't come for you tonight, who would have?" I like it because...hmm...hell, we _all_ know who would have come for him and it might have been more fun that way. It tickles me.

Thanks to readers! Thanks to reviewers!

Up Next: He was a skinny guy with hair too long to have been regulation at academy. He was just another fresh fish in the big police pond, but Wolfwood got the impression that he was different. He wondered exactly why that was.


	21. Leatherman, Part I

Warnings: Violence. Lots and lots of violence. Strong language. Disturbing situations. OOC-ness. Possible timeline issues I hope you won't notice. Not beta-read, as always.

* * *

Part XXXIII: Leatherman

Part I

* * *

Chief Forrester Henry, the head and heart of May City's New Central Branch, had gone through life gritting his teeth because his first name was a better last name than his actually last name was. He'd sent back or cut up dozens of membership cards and credit cards because the names were switched. He'd had the same conversation with a million operators. "Yes, I know that Henry is usually a first name, but it's my _last _name. And yes, I know that Forrester is usually a last name, but it's my _first_ name. Please understand I can't use my credit card because this _isn't _my name and it doesn't match with my ID and the store manager is threatening to call security so could you _please_ give me a break?" 

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood (who knew the man better than most) always joked that the problem with Henry was that he was a teddy bear pretending to be a badass. With one too many beers in him, Wolfwood would say that he blamed Henry's dramatics on his seeing one too many buddy cop movies where the chief was always a screaming, grizzly old fart who cursed up a storm and threatened to take badges every episode. In the face of such a precedent, a guy who spoiled his daughter and cooed at his grandson could start to feel a little pressure.

"Okay, boys and girls," Henry said in what was his best attempt at being stern. In the main meeting room, and spilling out into the cluster of desks beyond, officers of every description stopped joking and arguing to listen. There was the unmistakable air of mischief hanging about all of them.

"Right, right. Quiet it down. I'm sure you all know that today some new trainees will start workin' with us. If you're going to be trainin' one of them, you know already 'cause I sent you the memo. If you didn't get the memo it's probably 'cause you're too stupid to keep track of your shit. If that's the case your ass is grass and I'm the lawnmower. And I'm guessing from that stupid grin on your face that you, Officer Warsaw, don't have the slightest idea that you'll be trainin' a new officer?"

The grin fell off Warsaw's face.

"Thought not," said Henry. "I'll be seeing you after the meeting."

Someone made the buzzing sound of a lawnmower starting. Warsaw squirmed.

"But enough about Warsaw's demotion, let's talk about the new guys. First off, this station is notorious for giving the trainees a rough time."

Snickers sounded through the room.

"Yeah, yeah, it's real fuckin' funny," Henry said, glaring at everyone. "You guys get your kicks and I get shit for it."

A cop in the back shrugged imploringly. "Come on, Chief, all of us got the same treatment when we were training!"

Darby nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, my T.O. used to leave underwear in my locker. _Women's_ underwear."

"Don't blame that on your T.O.! Those lacy ones are _still_ in there!" someone shouted back.

"What the hell are you doing in my locker!"

"Can we stay on track here, people?" Henry interrupted. "We _were_ talkin' about how nice and kind you're gonna treat the scr—new officers."

"See, Chief! Even _you_ can't help it! They're new; they _deserve_ to be picked on. We're just...following tradition!"

Henry rubbed his wrinkled forehead. "Tradition, eh? Well some traditions have got to end. These are good guys: high marks at academy, spotless records. The last thing I need is for you clowns to 'break 'em in' the hard way. So you're gonna treat 'em proper. You're gonna treat 'em real nice. This means I don't wanna hear you callin' them 'scrubs' or 'rookies' or 'frosh' or 'fresh meat' or—"

"How about 'fuckin' kids?'" Warsaw called from the back.

"No," Henry said.

"Fishies? Errand Boys?"

"No!"

"Walking targets?"

"Hell no!"

"Did he already say we couldn't call them 'scrubs'?"

"Yeah, but he didn't say we couldn't call them 'bitches'."

"He didn't say no to 'bait' or 'canon fodder' either."

"Dammit!" Henry seethed. "This is it! No insults or nicknames or...anything! Treat 'em decent, follow?"

"Yes, Chief," the room replied in the vocal equivalent of crossing your fingers behind your back.

Henry looked skeptical, yet desperate to believe all at the same time. "All right, let's greet them..._nicely_."

The minute the door opened there was an enthusiastic round of applause that anyone could see was tainted with the aroma of condescension. The applause gave way quickly to raucous calls of "Here, fishies!" and "Scrubs!" Henry slapped his forehead.

There were ten officers in all, each one more fresh faced than the last. There wasn't a beard or even the trace of stubble on the men. No makeup hid a thing on the faces of the women. They were too young to have anything to hide. Their uniforms were so unstained and crisp that one could imagine dirt running away from them and hiding in fear. All ten of them looked nervous, but maintained perfect academy posture that most everyone in the room forgot until it was time to attend a ceremony or a funeral. A few of the more self-conscious veterans tried to stand up a little straighter.

"All right. Let's have some introductions," Henry said, flipping through the papers on his worn clipboard. Alphabetically he called out names and one by one the new officers stepped forward and gave a brief introduction, trying to ignore the loud sniggers and conversations swirling all around them. Henry had just made it halfway down the list when a disturbance at the back of the crowd alerted everyone to the presence of one popular police detective.

"You're late!"

"Sorry, Chief, but the DA waits for no man!" Wolfwood fired back and eventually made it to the front of the room, tie out of place and hair artfully ruffled.

He propped himself against the edge of a desk, crossed his arms and waited. "Don't let me interrupt," he said. Henry tried to look putout, but it wasn't the best attempt. "I need to see you after the meeting, Detective."

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Smartass," Henry said and continued with a forced, _"Ahem!" _

As he called out the names, Wolfwood let his eyes drift over the gathering of men and women. There was a short brunette with green eyes and charming baby fat. Definitely datable. Then there was a caramel colored willow of a girl with flashing brown eyes. When she spoke, it was with a purring voice that made Wolfwood think of a snuggling kitten. Several clicks past datable.

Henry made it to the second to last name on the list. "Vash Saverem," he said and a tall, blonde scarecrow stepped forward. Wolfwood's girl watching came to a surprising end as he listened to the officer speak.

"I'm Vash Saverem. I'm looking forward to working with all of you," he said seriously, but it was obvious he was biting the inside of his cheek, as if a joke was fighting its way up his throat. The corner of his lips twitched and he stepped back hastily. Red with the effort not to laugh, Saverem's eyes caught Wolfwood's and for just a minute, Wolfwood imagined that he got the joke, too, and that the two of them were sharing it while everyone else stayed in the dark.

Saverem looked down and Wolfwood suddenly found that he couldn't have told anyone what had made him chuckle five seconds before. The last officer in the line stepped forward and gave a much longer introduction that Wolfwood didn't hear at all because he was still looking at Saverem. He couldn't figure out why. After all, he was just a skinny guy with hair too long to have been regulation at academy. He was just another fresh fish in the big police pond, but Wolfwood got the impression that he was different. He wondered exactly why that was.

Introductions out of the way, everyone applauded and then dispersed, the Training Officers moving forward to snatch their trainees before the sharks of the department could sink their teeth into them and begin the hazing.

Wolfwood watched the activity from a distance, shook his head, and wandered off to Henry's office. It wasn't his concern. He only looked back over his shoulder once. Or maybe twice.

Not his concern at all. He'd probably never even meet the guy.

* * *

"Nick! My boy! Come on in!" Henry boomed and pulled a chair out for Wolfwood. Wolfwood darted distrusting looks from the chair to Henry and back. It was as if he expected the chair to explode at any minute. 

"Who are you and what did you do with the Chief?"

Henry forced a laugh. "Oh, you kidder!" he said and shoved Wolfwood with an unnecessary amount of force into the seat. He eased into his own chair, clasped his hands together at the desk and smiled sunshine down on the detective. "Nicholas, have I told you how much I appreciate how hard you're willing to work for this city?"

"Whatever it is, the answer is no."

The smile intensified, painfully. "You're an invaluable member of this team. You always go the extra mile. Even when you're case load is fit to burstin'."

"I'll bite off my own tongue and bleed to death before I say yes."

Henry's fingers flexed almost imperceptibly on the desk. "I've never seen an officer so willing to give up hard earned vacation time and holidays in order to help the force out when it's in need!"

"Your windows are high enough. I will jump."

The smile crumbled. "You're a Christian! Suicide goes against your whole...whatever!"

"I can make an exception."

"Nick! Please!"

"Can you remember the last time I had a vacation?"

Henry frowned. "Er...no."

"Neither can I!"

There was a staring match that neither man won. Finally, the Chief gave a massive sigh and looked genuinely needy. "I can hit you with a sob story that will break your heart."

"Watching my vacation get stolen away is already doing that."

"But I'm only askin' you to do this because it's...er...a good cause. Very...er..._noble_."

"You have ten seconds."

Henry tried not to look too hopeful. "Burke had a heart attack while fixing the roof of his house. Fell right off and broke his leg, too. We've got his eleven cases to pass around. One of them is tied up with the feds, three of them are going to trial and..." He shrugged helplessly.

Through clenched teeth, Wolfwood asked. "What cases were you thinking of sending _my_ way? _All_ of them?"

"Not at all! Just two homicides and _cough_aserialkiller_cough_."

"What was that?" He cupped his ear and sat forward. "Didn't quite catch that."

A sigh and then, "Another nutty serial killer. Leatherman. The Leatherman case. Burke requested that you take over. He's got more wires hooked up to him than the Channel Seven Tower and he looked at me with these pleading, intense eyes and he says, 'Get Wolfwood on Leatherman. I don't want any one else on the job. He's the only man I trust!'"

Silence and then, "He didn't say any damn thing like that!"

"No, but it was _implied_. He _did_ ask for you. I just added a coupla fluffy things to make it sound better."

Wolfwood sat forward and propped his elbows on the desk. "Chief, I don't want to go in your book of whiners, but I've got to say: there were seven serial killers active in May last year. I've helped catch two of them and now we're down to five. Can I get a vacation before I sew on another Boy Scout badge for catching the criminally insane?"

"Nick, listen," Henry said and shifted his bulk around. "I'd love to give you the time off—Lord knows you deserve it—but when the detective in charge of the case has a major heart attack and asks for you to take it _and _you've got a nice reputation for catchin' guys like this _and_ I said I'd get you...you gonna make a liar outta me?"

Wolfwood scowled at him but it lacked any real venom. "If—_if_—I were to agree—"

"Thank you!" Henry interrupted with a genuine smile of relief on his wide face.

"I said _if_," Wolfwood snapped.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

Wolfwood didn't look convinced by the apology and said, "If. If I take the case, we're talking a lot of perks."

"What _kind_ of perks?"

"_Well_...have I mentioned this car I've had my eye on?"

Henry's expression was poison. "You're going to be a bastard about this, aren't you?"

Wolfwood yawned and then a Cheshire grin spread across his face. "Yes, I really am. It's a beautiful car and I just _can't _afford it without a little help. And don't get me started on the vacation time I'll be missing out on again. But Leatherman...Leatherman...I don't know a thing about that case. I've been too busy with Brookside and Bay Bridge to notice anything else. So everything I need to know will be...?"

Burke looked torn between irritation and relief. "On your desk soon as you finish visiting Burke. If the poor bastard's up, he can tell you what you need to know. If he ain't, happy readin'." He reached under his desk and retrieved a blue tin. "And give him these. Wife made 'em. I think they're chocolate. With the wife's cookin'..." He shrugged. "Could be shortbread gone wrong."

"I like Sally's cooking."

"That's 'cause you're still young. The effects are cumulative. Get to be my age and you'll run in fear."

* * *

Burke looked like hell. Wolfwood told him so. 

"Thanks," the man gagged out. He was sitting up and surrounded by machines that all seemed to beep and flash. All around were flowers and balloons. Wolfwood added his to the collection.

"Oh, and I brought you some cookies from Sally. I think they're chocolate."

"She's a sweetie. Find a spot. Stick 'em anywhere. An' have a seat."

Wolfwood did so and then smiled at the other detective. "Can I get you anything?"

"Nah, I'm fine. 's funny, but I hate the doctor most when he's right. He's been tellin' me for years to change my wicked ways before they got the better of me. Now look at me, surrounded by machines; like something from a Spielberg flick."

"Hey, you're still alive."

"That what you call this?"

They both shared a sad smile and then spoke of other things. Burke had been watching the news and teased Wolfwood about his new celebrity status. Wolfwood told Burke all the station gossip including the fact that the new recruits had come.

"Anybody interesting?"

Wolfwood opened his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue and then he thought better of it. "Nah, same as always," he lied.

"The place could use a little shaking up. Shame, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Damn shame." Eventually, they were able to bring the conversation around to business.

"Leatherman, what's he all about?"

Burke shook his head but it took effort. "He's pretty sick, but not too smart. That's why it pisses me off that we can't find him. Victims are all young; usually rich boys into the Leather scene. He keeps them—like pets or somethin'—for weeks at a time. Then he panics, kills them off or leaves them to die."

"Witnesses? Something like this has gotta—"

"You'd think that, wouldn't ya? But no, the victims aren't the only ones with money and reputations. Way I figure, nobody comes forward to say, 'Yeah, I saw him with so-and-so on this-and-this day' because they're protecting their own, precious, filthy rich necks. But like I said: he's sloppy. We get a good witness who can give us a solid sighting and I think he'll be ours."

Wolfwood nodded slowly. "It's weird. You know, I feel like I'm coming up from having my head buried in the sand. I went home the other day and looked at this stack of papers in my doorway and realized I hadn't looked at any of them. Can't remember the last time I read a paper at all. I've been so wrapped up with my own cases, I didn't notice anybody else's. How the hell did somebody like Leatherman who's killed—how many victims?"

"Oh, at least 13 but maybe as many as 20."

"That many? Like I said: how did I miss something like that?"

Burke raised a weak hand and slapped Wolfwood on the shoulder. He barely felt it. "Don't beat yourself up. After all, you're gonna get to know him pretty well soon enough. In a way, I'm almost glad I had a heart attack. I'm already sick of the bastard myself."

* * *

Sometimes people snap. Today was Grant Durer's day. 

At six o'clock in the morning, Durer was in traffic on a wide highway that really wasn't anywhere. All around him were cities, but this road wasn't part of them; it stretched between them, looped around them, merged with two other highways, and changed names four times along the way. He took it every morning.

Today he was wedged behind a semi tracker trailer with a sticker that asked "HOW'S MY DRIVING?" but the phone number to call and complain that his driving sucked was missing. Behind him was a station wagon that had seen better days. Rust and dents were displayed across its body like battle scars. Bundles of sleeping bags were secured by bungee cords on top. Stuffed alongside them was an ancient cooler and what looked like a broken bag of metal bars and umbrellas. Durer stared at it through his rearview mirror, trying to figure out what it was. He had time, after all.

A tent, he realized ten minutes later. It was a collapsed tent propped up alongside the cooler. The driver just hadn't put it back together properly and now it looked like a busted pterodactyl if he squinted at it. Putting on the clues together, Durer figured that the driver of the wagon must have been going on a trip. Or maybe coming back from one. Some nice long, relaxing vacation in the woods with no one to bother him. Maybe he'd go hunting or fishing and spend all day getting brown in the sun. Durer, though he had never met him, hated the driver of the station wagon from that moment on. Durer remembered liking hunting. He'd been in the hunting club in college but couldn't remember the last time he'd gone.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and wondered why his forehead hurt. Had he really given it more than a passing thought, he would have noticed that it was from frowning. He had been frowning, in fact, for five years.

Three years ago, the tic had started. It was just below his right eye and went off like a trigger at least once every minute. He didn't notice it when he chewed gum, so he smacked like a horse all day long. His gum chewing bothered his wife and worse, it made his jaw ache. But now he couldn't go without it. He chewed gum like other people smoked. If he couldn't find his brand at the convenience store, he got angry.

He turned the key in the ignition and crept forward five feet, then he turned if off again. Somewhere far ahead of him, someone leaned on their horn.

"Shut the fuck up before I come over there and _make_ you shut the fuck up!" he screamed out the window and then flopped back into his seat. The horn went silent. His head was throbbing now and his jaw was so sore he felt it all the way to his teeth.

Last night he had met with some of the boys from work. There was Randall who had been with the company as long as him, had only ever received two raises in that whole time, and whispered obscenities at the management team behind their backs.

Then there was Chuck, who was even older than both he and Randall, was _openly_ hostile to the management team and freely used obscenities to their faces. But they couldn't fire him. He had seniority, handled data entry like he had invented it, and could train the newcomers better than anyone else. Besides, firing him would mean having to promote either Randall or Durer to take his place. Near as Durer could tell, they would never do anything to help him get ahead. But Chuck would never move any further either, punishment for being so good where he was. Chuck, Durer and Randall. The three of them were the running joke of the company. Durer could look back on his life now and realize that a lot of bowing and scraping didn't advance your career or your life; it just meant that some bastard would see you bowing and scraping so well and decide you should do it forever. _Here, Durer, you're so good at taking orders_, Durer thought bitterly, mimicking his supervisor's voice in his mind, _why don't you bend over that desk there and take it up the ass while you finish the numbers from last month? _

Durer sometimes imagined punching his supervisor. It cheered him up just a little bit every time he did it.

Over smokes and brandy last night, the boys had bitched like pros. And after a few bottles, Durer got the feeling that they had talked about some pretty crazy things. Crazy, crazy, crazy things. He remembered something feeling like a cold block of fear in his belly and then melting into something _alive_ and hungry. The rest of it was a haze.

One hour of stop and go traffic later, and Durer made it to his office. He didn't really think about it, but his duffel was heavier today. He made it to his cubicle inside the rented office space on the sixteenth floor, blandly greeted the other employees nearby, and then folded his big body into his chair. When his bag hit the ground, it clunked and thudded in a way that paper and folders never did.

His headache was worse now than ever. He downed a couple of aspirin (he'd started taking them like candy around the same time he started chewing gum), and turned on his computer. At the rate he was going, he wondered when the hole in his stomach would appear and if it would kill him before he could do it himself.

Just after lunch, his supervisor called him into his office.

Twenty minutes later, Durer returned to his cubicle but he didn't sit down. He stood near his chair staring down at nothing. He was still standing there five minutes later. And then ten minutes later. Finally he looked around and saw Randall and Chuck looking at him with wide-eyed worry. Everyone was, actually.

He laughed at how stupid Chuck looked with that cheesy mustache and his eyes as big as plates. He laughed at how Randall looked ten times younger when he was scared. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then he reached down, lifted his duffel onto his desk and unzipped it slowly, lovingly, like he had undressed his wife on their wedding day; back when she still bothered to look at him at all.

The police got the call three minutes later.

* * *

The autumn days were still warm and the weather readers dropped the phrase "Indian Summer" daily, like a hot potato. 

Officer Vash Saverem wanted to laugh, but he kept it to himself. More than two weeks into his job and it still tickled him: His Training Officer was a big, old softie.

His name was Cooper (Marvin Cooper, but had stopped answering to his first name some time after he got his badge). Cooper had become a cop because he'd watched a TV show in middle school about a lost little girl, complete with teddy bear. Career Day, he said with a Santa Claus glint in his eyes. The little lost girl had been in tears until she saw Officer Friendly. Officer Friendly had been a cute blonde in a short, short skirt, Cooper said. But more than the nice set of stems, she had helped the little girl find her mother as if by magic. Cooper said it left a big impression on him. He even had a copy of the video and had showed it to his son and daughter in hopes that they'd catch the fever. Unfortunately, he said, his daughter had seen "Mulan" and wanted to be a warrior. His son wanted to be a pirate and now ended every sentence with "Savvy?"

He was considering banning Disney flicks from the house.

Vash liked the guy. Cooper cringed when someone cursed, thought Mr. Rodgers was a Saint, and admitted to having a weakness for cookie dough ice cream. After too long around the tough-acting, meat-eating, angry guys at academy who did what they did because they thought they were supposed to, Vash was glad to meet someone who hadn't turned into an action movie star the minute he got his badge.

The only drawback, Vash realized, was that Cooper sugarcoated everything. His beat was pretty soft, he had admitted to Vash within their first hour of meeting. And if anything too bad happened, more than likely it was a drug sale and then it wasn't his territory anymore after the initial stop. Cooper patrolled around West Avenue from where it stretched south to Eaglebright and then east towards Roderick. The whole area was a nesting ground for insurance offices and stockbrokers. There was a lake and a park nearby and the greenery spilled over into potted plants beside revolving glass doors and well-trimmed trees lining the strip. There seemed to be a franchise coffee shop on ever corner. It wasn't the concrete jungle one expected from May. It was the ball pit of the McDonald's.

Even traffic here was pretty tame though five miles in either direction—off every major exit—was hell. Most people rode the highway in from the suburbs and worked in the heart of the city. They parked somewhere close and then spent their days taking cabs or the subway or buses. Pedestrians in business black hustled from place to place everywhere Vash looked.

"What time is it, kid?" Cooper asked in his mellow tenor.

"Just past noon, sir."

"You hungry?"

"I could go for a coffee," Vash answered and added, "and a donut" in a whisper.

"What was that?"

"How about that shop over there?"

"Oh! Good choice! They have bagels! They'll toast them for free, too!"

The squad car angled into the parking spot and Cooper hefted his body out. "You stay here. I'll run in. What do you want?"

"Just a coffee. Lots of sugar, lots of cream. And some donuts, if they have them."

Cooper shook his head. "'s Guys like you who give us all a bad name. Well, it can't be helped." He waddled through the door and it swung shut behind him.

Vash leaned back and thought about his day so far. Officially, he wasn't in training anymore. After a soft two week with the most intense event being a DWI that turned violent, Vash had lived through his first morning as a police officer. Cooper would still be with him for the next week or so, but his job as T.O. was over. Vash was excited and nervous all at the same time. He still felt what he had felt for a long time: that he had a pair of big shoes to fill. And because of that, he wanted to make everyone proud, wanted to prove himself, wanted to do the right thing. Part of his mind squirmed uncomfortably and he had to face facts.

Sometimes, he worried. It wasn't enough to knock him off course, but when he stepped back and looked at his choices from a distance, like studying a painting, they didn't really look like his own. Instead, it looked as if he had jumped from square to square like a chess piece being moved around a board by someone else. The whole time he had been doing it—going to police academy, burning the midnight oil—it had seemed like what he wanted, had seemed right. It still did, but sometimes he wondered what he'd be doing if things had gone differently.

He jumped, startled. He still hadn't gotten used to the radio. It clicked on with a static stab before a droning voice cut it off. "All officers near the thirty-three hundred block of Roderick..."

Vash poked his head out the window to stare at the nearest street sign.

31st and Roderick. _Two blocks away_, he thought just as the door beside him opened.

"Donuts and coffee," Cooper said around half of a toasted bagel.

"No time," Vash answered and kicked the sirens.

* * *

Being first on the scene is rarely—if ever—a good thing. Gruff cops in their favorite bar with take a long drag from their cigars and a longer drink from their beers and tell you that all the shit that goes wrong—all the things that come out funny when the forensics team starts poking around—all ends up blamed on the officer that kicked the door down in the first place. They'll tell you stories of split-second decisions that turned out to be the wrong ones because what a scene looks like when you first get there is never what it looks like five hours later with yellow tape surrounding it and the bodies turning cold and rank beneath the black light. And later, they'll say with a snarl, when the attorney asks you what you were thinking when you fucked up so royally, you'll have to say that you made a simple mistake and, most likely, the jury won't believe you. 

Vash and Cooper were first on the scene. Two officers swimming through a sea of panicked employees streaming from the building and into the street like an army on the retreat. They crashed into each other, trampled the ones that fell.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Cooper cried as he tried to fight the tide of bodies. He and Vash were actually pushed further back away from the entrance with their struggles. "This is impossible!"

"There's always another way into a building," Vash hollered back and veered off to the right, cutting in front of the mob. They found a side entrance, a little smaller than the main gate, when they rounded the building. Inside was an abandoned guard station and a metal detector that roared when the two officers passed beneath it. Nobody came to stop them. They split at the elevators.

"I don't suppose you'll object if I...?" Cooper said and gestured to the elevator with an embarrassed expression.

"I'll take the stairs. No problem. Actually," he said and gave Cooper's spare tire a considering look, "I'll probably beat you there." He took off at a run before Cooper could retaliate fairly.

"Blasted fresh fish!" Cooper mumbled and then hit the up button.

Vash was thinking as he took the Spartan stairs at a dangerously paced run. The numbers painted on each landing marking the floors seemed to be counting up to something terrible and he didn't want to think about that being the case but they were first on the scene. First on the scene was never a good thing.

When he reached the eleventh floor, he could hear the gunshots. He was breathless by the time the number sixteen surged before his eyes. Leaning back against the heavy door leading to the corridor, he took a few deep breaths, felt his heart rate slow, and then pulled his piece. Safety off. Another gunshot sounded and somebody screamed loud enough for Vash to hear it through the door. He leaned against the handle, pushed the door open with the small of his back and swung out into position. He was in a narrow hallway with offices on either side and an elevator at the end. What was left of the big windows that had made up half of the wall blocking off the offices was on the floor, glass littering the ugly beige carpet. The entire place smelled a little too much like the academy shooting range.

Vash crept forward, put his back against the wall and leaned forward just enough to assess the scene. What he saw made his blood turn cold. A big man was holding a Colt .45 to the head of younger man who was on his knees facing Vash, his hands behind his back. _Execution style_, Vash thought.

In a corner to the right, more than a dozen people were cowering with their hands to their ears or holding onto each other, crying. Another armed man—thinner and mustachioed— stood before them, screaming at them to shut up. He kept darting nervous glances between the man with the Colt and a body on the ground. "This ain't no good, man! You hear me?" he said. "You've lost yo mind! You shot David. What the hell did David ever do?"

"Shut up, Chuck! Shut the fuck up and watch them!" the big man seethed.

"Man, man...this is bad. What the hell am I doin'? What the hell am I doin'?"

"Shut the fuck up or I'll shoot you, too! Just shut it!"

One of the hostages moved. "I said don't move!" The tall man's finger twitched on the trigger and the gun went off. The hostage rolled onto his side, holding his leg to his chest. "My leg, God, my leg!"

"I said don't move! All of you, back against the wall!"

Over the panicked sounds coming from the hostages, Vash could hear a steady monologue. "Do you think you can treat people anyway you want?" the big man said and shoved the gun hard into the back of the other man's head. "Do you!"

"Please don't kill me. I've got a wife..."

"Yeah? Well so do I, you little punk bastard. Can't even support her like I want. Can't do anything for her and you know what? It's your fuckin' fault. Can't get ahead 'cause you won't let me. You...you...you think you can just step on whoever you like. You treat people like shit and use them and then kick them to the curb when you're done and I'm tired of it!"

"Just shoot him already! Get this over with!"

"I said shut up!"

Vash shifted back out of sight and tried to think. Now wasn't the time to think about how insufficient academy training was turning out to be. Now wasn't the time to complain that a few weeks with a softhearted Training Officer on the easy beat had done diddly to prepare him for a hostage situation. Now was the time to remember the words his Sergeant had said to his class that first day at academy:

Don't be a hero. Heroes end up dead.

He nodded to himself. Yes, now was not the time to play hero, either. Now was the time to figure out how long it would take for the other units to arrive. Now was the time to control the situation long enough so that the hostages would last until they did. He tried to kick his brain into gear, to make it work like the brain of someone who had been doing this for years, not someone who had been doing this for days. Unfortunately, nothing brilliant was coming to his mind. Worse, he got the nasty, nasty feeling that if he didn't do something soon, there would be very few hostages left for the backup to save.

At about that same time, he realized that his position was bad. Very bad. The gunmen could get a great shot at him if he moved even a foot to his right, but his view would be blocked by cubicles. He barely had a place to take, couldn't move without making a sound, didn't have a clean shot that wouldn't put the hostages in danger and was really beginning to think that his first day as a cop was the worse one in the history of the world.

Things weren't looking to improve, he realized with a sick plummeting feeling inside his stomach. He looked down the hallway to the elevator, to the lit numbers above the doors saying that the elevator was moving up, up. Four floors away. Three floors away. Damn.

While _he _had a little cover from the barrier wall, the elevator was right beside the entrance to the office. There was _no_ cover from that position. In fact, anyone coming off the elevator would be standing directly in front of the guy with the Colt. When Cooper came through, he'd be a sitting duck.

He had to do something. And no, he thought, now was not the time to be a hero, but it might just be the time to be a human diversion. He took a step to his right. The tall gunmen caught sight of him.

"Cops, man!"

"Fuckin', fuckin'...just...just...leave me alone!" the big man said. His voice was pained and halfway between a sob and a scream.

A bullet flew past Vash's ear and a framed painting on the wall beside him shattered, raining glass down onto him. Vash went into a crouch, bit back a gasp, and tried to hold his position without becoming Swiss cheese.

"This is the police. Put down your weapons. I just want to talk to you."

"No, no, no!" the same hurt voice screamed. Each 'no' was punctuated by another bullet. More glass rained down. Someone was whimpering. Vash tried to ignore the glass that cut into his face on the way down.

Up ahead, the lights above the elevator flashed on the number 16. There was a pause like eternity as Vash moved, trying to distract, trying to give Cooper a chance, trying to do something right. And maybe, just maybe, his Sergeant would say he was just trying to be a hero.

The elevator door gave a cheerful _ding_ and slid open.

Cooper stepped into the hallway. _Like a rookie,_ Vash thought in the half a second interval before everything went to hell.

"Get back in the elevator!" His voice sounded quiet and far away. Cooper looked like he was barely moving at all or moving through air as thick as tar. When the bullet hit, he whirled from the force of it, his big body pirouetting almost gracefully.

A sick splatter of blood painted the wall behind him.

Vash was already moving, hunched over and cringing at the sound of bullets coming too close. He made it to Cooper, dragged him down and back, away from the entrance. The guy was heavy, but Vash was running on adrenaline. He shuffled the last few feet back to safety, shifted the unwieldy body in his arms and then down onto the floor. When he looked down, he saw Cooper's blood spreading across this chest, a slick, heavy weight of red that seeped through to his skin. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the double imprint—one right now and the other from his childhood. All the blood. Everywhere.

No. That was then and this was now and he was here to stop things like that from happening ever again and he'd be damned if he'd lose after all this time.

He swallowed and opened his eyes.

There really wasn't time to think anymore. At academy, they told him to take out the biggest threat first.

He spun, kneeled, raised his gun, fired twice. His view still wasn't the best, but his aim always was. A lifetime of training to do _this_.

The man checking the hostages crumbled like a marionette with the strings cut when his kneecaps couldn't support him anymore. The blood that soaked his dress slacks looked black. When he hit, his gun tumbled from his fingers.

"Fuck! My legs! My fuckin' legs!"

Vash moved again, ducking back behind the barrier in time to avoid a round of shots. He did a little mental math. No sounds of a reload and no Colt held that many bullets. There was another gunman. But _where?_

He looked down at his Training Officer. He could still see the slow rise and fall of his barrel chest. Good sign. Just hold on...

"Hey, Coop, you still with me?" he whispered.

"Rookie...hotshot," Cooper coughed back.

Vash managed a chuckle even as he swallowed hard and looked away from the red stain spreading beneath his body. "Keep your shirt on. You wanna eat that bagel, right?"

He waved his arm before the entrance and let out a long breath when a bullet barely missed it. He knew more than enough now because, really, sound was a wonderful thing. He pulled up onto his knees, twisted his torso to the left and squeezed off another two shots. Someone screamed. He dropped back down.

Two down. One to...

"Don't you come near me! I'll do it! Don't think I won't! This bastard deserves it! He wants to fire me! Take away everything! He...they all deserve it. I can't win! I can't get ahead!"

Vash peeked over the barrier, through the jagged frame of broken glass and cringed. The man who had been on his knees was now up, being dragged back, a meaty arm wrapped around his neck and the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Wet, helpless tears ran steadily down his cheeks.

Vash stood, moved to the entrance and into the office, glass crunching beneath his feet. "Okay," he said and was surprised his own voice sounded steady. Inside was worse than he had been able to see. There were at least four people, either dead or dying strewn across the floor like discarded toys, their white shirts and crisp skirts and slacks stained red. "If you put down your gun, we can talk. I just want to talk."

"Drop it! Stop moving! Fuckin' stop moving!" the big man screamed, veins rising beneath his skin. His eye was twitching steadily above his fleshy cheek and the muscle at his jaw flexed rhythmically.

The hostage cringed and made desperate little panting noises when the barrel pushed harder against his face. "Durer! Durer! Please don't! God, help me!" he cried out.

"I'm tired! I'm so tired!" the man named Durer said pitifully. "Don't come closer!"

Vash halted again, opened his mouth to say something—later, when he tried to think about it, he couldn't imagine what it would have been, probably more meaningless, pleading words—but they never left his lips. Never got the chance.

One of the hostages had decided to be a hero.

And maybe his Sergeant had had a point because this wasn't good _at all_.

He was a lanky guy with shaggy brown hair. He didn't move with much finesse, but he slammed into Durer's back with enough force to send both him and the hostage tumbling forward. The gun slid off and away from where it had been pressed. Durer's finger pulled back reflexively. The bullet left the chamber while the gun was still sliding and the angle sent it whizzing one inch from Vash's ear. He went sideways awkwardly and slipped on the bloodied carpeting. Everything happened in seconds. Vash looked up. The impossible tumble of bodies before him was like the children's game, Monkey Pile. There was no order to the limbs splaying here and there. Vash's quick eyes lost track of the gun.

All three men hit the ground. The hero scrambled off first and looked desperately around at his feet, searching for the gun.

"Sir, back away!" Vash heard himself scream as he staggered to his feet. The man looked up at him then, puzzled. He looked, for a minute, as if he was about to nod. Instead, he went down when his side exploded. Close range.

The hostage from before was clawing his way from underneath Durer, his leg twisted at a strange angle and his foot lifelessly dragging behind him. "God help me God help me God help me," he gasped, fingers stiff and talon-like as he tried to save himself. Durer had rolled onto his back and was still clutching the gun in both his shaking hands. The hero's blood made an angry mask on his crazed face, his eye still spastically twitching.

"Please! Drop the gun!" and it was more of a plea, something his Sergeant would have never approved of, but what could he do when the choices were so few and so ugly?

"No!"

Durer rolled again, ending on his knees, one hand bracing him while the other lifted, aiming the gun at the man who had started the day as his supervisor, but now was just another thing in the way, another reminder of the fact that while some people have bad days, he had been having a bad life.

"I'll never, ever, get ahead," he whispered. His finger started the short, ever-so-long ease back. When the flesh of his thigh tore into shreds, he went sideways. He didn't scream; merely toppled over like a building with no supports, with nothing left to hold it up.

But he didn't release the gun. Laying on his side, head cradled against his arm, he stretched it forward, reaching for one last thing. The end to something.

"Help me oh God oh God!"

"Never. Get. Ahead."

"Please stop," Vash whispered, wishing that he couldn't see the tendons in Durer's wrist shifting as his finger moved...

"Never."

The last shot fired that day crashed through the silence, lingered, and then faded away.

"God help me help me," the supervisor continued to chant long after someone—albeit not God—already had.

Vash dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

He was still kneeling there like a man at prayer when they found him less than five minutes later.

"Officer down! Officer down!" someone cried into a radio. "Get that gurney over here, now!"

A woman was sobbing loudly. "He...he...he just went from cubicle to cubicle! Shooting! He was crazy..."

_No_, Vash thought. _He'd just had a bad day._

"Are you hurt?" A hand landed on his shoulder.

Vash didn't look up. "No," he said, but it was a lie.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Thanks to all! Many apologies for the delay in the update. Ask me about my alien abduction! 

Ahem. Right.

Up Next:

When he walked through the station, people looked at him with expressions he tried to pretend weren't half fear, half awe. The ache it caused was made worse by the conversations he heard all around him. Conversations where captains and sergeants and hardened beat cops called men and women he had graduated with everything from 'Kid' to 'Rookie' to 'Scrub.' Always playfully. Always with a smile.

But those same officers nodded at him, respectfully. Reserved and cautious. Tiptoeing around him, afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

And no one—absolutely no one—called him 'Rookie'.

No one, in fact, called him anything but 'Officer Saverem.' _Officer _Saverem.

And while his fellow graduates probably envied him for the instant respect he had received, he would have done anything to be treated just like them. But one day—one infinitesimal moment in his life—had destroyed every chance of that. He wasn't like them now. Different and weird till the last. As always. And no one understood.

No one.


	22. Leatherman, Part II

Warnings: Adult language. Angst. OOC-ness for fun, but not profit. Violence. Did I mention angst? Still not beta-read, but if you've made it this far into the story, you're not surprised by that.

* * *

Part XXXIV: Leatherman

Part II

* * *

Wolfwood got the nasty feeling that he was spending more time away from his own desk than at it. He'd been out racing across town for over three days and felt more out of touch than ever. It irked him, especially when he recalled that this was supposed to be his vacation. 

And Burke had been right, Leatherman was a sick kid and sloppy to boot. But looking through the files, Wolfwood got the feeling that Burke hadn't been as dedicated to the case as he might have been. He couldn't blame the guy, really. Thirteen cases kept a guy busy, but there seemed to be leads everywhere with Leatherman that had never been followed up. The guy's activities were limited to a certain area, to a certain _world_, really. The Leather scene was his playground and pretty, rich boys were his play toys. Unfortunately, Burke had never spent much time learning about the clubs or the culture. His reports showed that he was unfamiliar with how they operated and even where some of them _were_. Wolfwood's mind was filled with the hope that leads would spring up like daisies if he spent even an hour longer in any one of those clubs than Burke ever had. On the one hand, it was good because that meant the case wasn't impossible; there were still avenues to pursue. On the other, it just meant that he was going to be busy. And away from his desk. Not on vacation. Working.

And wouldn't you know it, but it didn't look like the situation would be changing anytime soon, either: he had a note waiting for him when he got back to the station that evening. Chief wanted to see him, ASAP. He wove his way through the station, not liking the atmosphere the minute he got a feel for it. The mood in the station was somehow subdued—had been whenever he'd popped in these past two days, now that he thought about it—and clusters of officers were standing together, whispering with humorless faces. It was the kind of heavy, black silence that came after a cop died in the line of duty. A sick, worried feeling came over him. What if...?

A group of the rookies were standing near the water cooler and there wasn't a fresh-faced smile to be found. Wolfwood noticed the absence of one tall blonde and realized he hadn't seen him for several days. He was very curious and found that he wanted to ask someone, but decided he'd find out soon enough if what Henry wanted to talk to him about was related at all.

Henry looked a little tired, more than a little stressed. Wolfwood knew that expression and didn't like it. Henry was one of the people he hoped would always be happy, always worry-free. But something was obviously bothering his mentor and friend.

"How's Leatherman comin'?" Henry asked and the creases on his forehead stood out fiercely.

"About as well as can be expected. All the scenes are cold and the witnesses are tired of being asked the same questions again, this time by someone who looks a little too young to be playing with guns."

Henry managed a smile and sat down across from Wolfwood. "Well, Nick, you can't help being young."

"But young and a detective? I can't blame them—or anybody else—who says that maybe I—"

"You earned it," Henry protested. It was a familiar argument and Wolfwood listened with half an ear and a smile because some things never changed and wasn't that just nice? "Anybody who says different is an idiot," Henry continued. "I've been there since the beginning so I know."

Wolfwood leaned back and smiled. "You gonna keep letting me get away with everything 'til I die, aren't you?"

"Or until I kill ya, yeah," Henry said and this time his smile was wider and took some of the strain off his features. Then his eyes darted to the generic clock hanging on the wall and his smile disappeared. "Listen, Nick, you haven't heard what's going on, have you?"

"No, something's up, that much I can tell. Everybody looks like...I dunno. Like somebody died or something." Wolfwood froze. "Did somebody...?"

Henry waved this away. "No, but we do have an injury."

"Who? What happened?"

"Coop."

"Cooper? Marvin Cooper?"

"Don't make that face. He'll live. Me and a couple of the boys went to see him today and the doctor actually _let_ us so you know it's not too bad. Wish you could have come, but...well...you haven't been easy to get a hold of and I know that's not your fault but..." Henry trailed off in the way he did whenever he ran out of things to say. He coughed and started again. "He'll be out of commission for a bit, but it would take more than a bullet to keep him from this job; he loves it, God knows why."

Wolfwood nodded his understanding. He was already mentally checking his schedule to find an open spot where he could go visit the older man. Cooper was a staple at the department, someone who he couldn't imagine the station being the same without. Even when they had been at the _old_ Central Branch, Cooper had been there, ready with a bad joke and a quick smile. "I didn't know. I really didn't know. God."

Now Henry's face went cloudier, as if he had arrived at the _real _problem, as if Cooper's injury were just the tip of the iceberg. "Come on, don't beat yourself up. Coop will be all right, but the problem is his trainee."

"Who was he training, again?"

"Saverem. Vash Saverem. Did you meet him? Skinny guy, real tall. Smiles a lot. Maybe you don't remember him."

"I remember him," Wolfwood said quietly. He remembered the shared look, the shared joke that had maybe been nothing at all, but had left an impression. He's seen him around and he seemed to be getting along well with everyone. They'd never spoken, but then, yeah, Henry was right: he was busy. Besides, what would he say to the guy anyway?

"Oh, okay," Henry said. "Right. Guess he stands out a little. Did you hear about the hostage situation? Maybe you picked it up on the scanners?"

"Wait. I think I heard something. Over near the park? Some kind of office building?"

"Insurance company. I've got Henly and Takahashi on it," he said and tossed a file at Wolfwood who flipped through it with a frown. The file was filled with photos paper clipped to page after page of typed names and reports written in Henly's familiar scrawl. There were employee records, too: a fat man with dead eyes and two others, both with forced smiles. Wolfwood moved past them and winced. The photos from the scene told a gruesome story. Bodies sprawled atop brownish-red stains soaking into the carpeting. The splatter of blood caused by a bullet exiting a body messily and lodging in a wall. A hallway littered with glass.

Henry waited a minute for Wolfwood to finish flipping through the file, took a deep breath and said, "That was Friday. Three guys—longtime employees—show up at work, armed to the teeth. They go through the front, flash their badges and go right on through."

"Metal detectors?"

"Oh, they've got 'em in spades, but employees don't have to go through 'em. Only visitors. It's a bitch, ain't it? Security videos just show these guys breezing right through the checkpoint with duffel bags and briefcases and...nobody stopped them. So all three of the gunmen show up, start work like usual. Maybe they weren't planning on doin' anything. Not really. Not at first. But the ringleader—Grant Durer—picked the day he got fired to bring a bag of guns to work. The three of them had dinner and drinks together the night before, a real whine and cheese party. Seems pretty premeditated when you look at it like that. So Friday. Yeah. Guy went from office to office shooting people. Then he dragged his supervisor out of his office, had him kneel and put his hands behind his head. He was gonna off him in front of everybody. Witnesses say the other two—Randall Baldwin and Charles Young—were reluctant, but that Durer bullied them into it. Within the first five minutes, when the shooting started, most of the employees ran from the office and got the ball rolling on an evac. A secretary called 911. Coop and Saverem were two blocks away. First on the scene. Back up didn't show for another ten."

"Jesus," Wolfwood said.

"You can say that again. I...hmmm," Henry tried and then stopped. "It's not...the thing is." He frowned and said, "Maybe I can just show you?" a little helplessly.

He heaved out of his desk and moved to the ancient TV in the corner, the one he refused to get rid of even when the offered him a new one to go with the new station. Wolfwood followed and stood behind him while Henry fought with the remote. Finally, a fuzzy, black and white security image flashed on the screen.

Wolfwood watched in silence. The total length of what Henry had to show him was less than ten minutes long. It was a painful ten minutes. When Henry hit the stop button, Wolfwood had to force himself to take a deep breath since he'd barely been breathing and wasn't sure where what he was seeing ranked on the scale of 'Unfair and Fucked Up' but was sure it was pretty high up on the list. Part of him wanted to curse. The rest of him felt a little numb.

Henry swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. "This...was his first day as an officer. His 'training' ended the day before."

When Wolfwood didn't say anything, Henry spoke again. "I...well...you can understand why I thought about you when I saw this." He gestured back to the desk and the two of them sat down again. "The the thing is...he's good. He's gonna make a fine cop. You should see this guy's record from academy. Top of his class. Ace with any regulation firearm. We were lucky to get him here. But we're gonna lose him, Nick. I talked to Coop and he doesn't want to think like that, but...yeah. So I had a long talk with Saverem. Sent him home for a couple days, don't think it did a lick 'a good. He's trying to cope, but I can see it easy: he doesn't want to go back out there. I just get the feelin' he's gonna drop his badge on my desk tomorrow and it hasn't got a smudge on it."

He tossed another file at Wolfwood. It was Saverem's file. He was smiling in his graduation photo and his police blue—complete with hat—looked out of place, far too serious when juxtaposed with a face that open. It made Wolfwood more than a little sad to think about the joker he had seen only a few weeks ago getting squashed by the world his first day on the job. He'd had a feeling about the kid then and he still did now, but it was a hard to say where the great expectations ended and the newfound worries began. His stats were just as the Chief had said: he was the kind of recruit anyone would want on their team. Everything in his file showed that he was the kind of sharpshooter who could train others to be just as good if he ever got tired of working a regular beat. The academy would love to have him.

Wolfwood shook his head after a minute. "No, Chief. You're worrying about nothing. Kid like this doesn't just up and quit. You don't get to be this good and just _quit_."

"I wanna think that, too. But you didn't see his eyes. For someone who can shoot like that, I got a feelin' he don't like to. Nothin' in his record about it, but somethin's up. He's hurtin', Nick, and can you blame him? To have to kill someone on his first day? And he tried his best, dammit. The only officer on the scene—and a rookie, too—and he pulled it off better than a lot of veteran cops could have. But he just isn't seein' it that way. I mean...hell, _you_ almost quit after your first day."

Wolfwood couldn't say anything to that because the truth was as hard to argue with as always.

"I know you're busy—hell, I just dumped a new case on you—but I'm askin' as a friend, not your chief. Talk to Saverem."

Wolfwood's first instinct was to shake his head, to bow out—if not gracefully—then at least with a little bit of control over the situation. Because he didn't know what to say to the kid that would make any of this better. And he _did_ want that: for Saverem to smile his goofy smile again and just _be_. But he got the feeling he wasn't the one who could give that to him. He knew why Henry thought he was but...

"Chief, I don't think that I can—"

"Please."

Wolfwood gritted his teeth. "Can't stand it when you do that. Makes it difficult to tell you to shove it."

For the first time that day, Henry managed a smile that was almost right. "I know. It's good to be me."

Wolfwood stood, stretched and asked, "Tony in?"

"Yeah, he's in. Talked to him an hour ago. Whaddya need Tony for? Somethin' wrong with your piece?"

"Nah, I just want to borrow some things."

Henry rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. "You got an idea in that head of yours?"

"Maybe."

"Wanna let me in on it?"

Wolfwood smiled over his shoulder. "No." He closed the door softly behind him. "Damn kid," Henry grumbled, like he'd been grumbling for years. "Damn kid."

* * *

When he walked through the station, people looked at him with expressions he tried to pretend weren't half fear, half awe. It was made worse by the conversations he heard all around him. Conversations where captains and sergeants and hardened beat cops called men and women he had graduated with everything from 'Kid' to 'Rookie' to 'Scrub.' Always playfully. Always with a smile. 

But those same officers nodded at him, respectfully. Reserved and cautious. Tiptoeing around him, afraid to say or do the wrong thing. No one played jokes on him or punched him in the shoulder with a smile or treated him like he didn't know exactly what he was doing even when he _felt_ like he didn't.

And no one—absolutely no one—called him 'Rookie'.

No one, in fact, called him anything but 'Officer Saverem.' _Officer _Saverem.

He moved through the department every day and people consoled him about Cooper.

"Officer Saverem, I'm so sorry about Cooper."

"Officer Saverem, how's your T.O.?"

And it was nice that they were trying and good that they cared but they didn't even hear how they sounded or notice that they treated him like a superior and not just...someone. Sometimes when he resurfaced from feeling like a failure enough to joke, he half expected them to salute. "At ease," he wanted to say while fighting a smile that really didn't need to be fought because it wasn't going to come anyway. He didn't feel like smiling.

And while his fellow graduates probably envied him for the instant respect he had received, he would have done anything to be treated just like them. But one day—one infinitesimal moment in his life—had destroyed every chance of that. He wasn't like them now. And no one understood.

No one.

Because when he closed his eyes, he saw the blood and it made his stomach twist and made him feel like he was buried alive and that he couldn't claw his way up. When he was younger and something went wrong or the other kids were mean to him, he'd wanted to hide away. He would disappear in the closet under the stairs or in the tree house or just down at the local mom and pop's and pretend that he was someone else. Of course, that never lasted because Rem would come and get him and he always had to go back, but for a little while it was more than wonderful to be someone else. He wanted that right now. Everything was building up and he couldn't sleep and somehow all of it was a giant sign pointing to the fact that he really hadn't made the right choices in life. He wanted to get away.

The break room was a good a place as any other. It was just as shiny and new as the rest of the New Central Branch. It even had fans that pumped out the tobacco smoke when someone lit up and sent it...who knew where? Away.

And right now, fancy smoke-pumping fans and shiny tables and chairs aside, the break room was brilliant because it was empty. Beautifully empty of anyone calling him Officer Saverem or anything at all. He could just...think. Be alone.

The door opened. And closed. And he wasn't alone anymore.

"Hey, kid. You smoke?"

He looked up with eyes that looked like sleep was a distant memory and met a pair of dark blues squinting at him beneath dark black brows. He knew those eyes, had seen them smiling at everyone while the man they belonged to moved through the station like he owned it. He was the station's hotshot detective, the guy on the news, the man with the plan. Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Who didn't know him? Who wasn't curious about him? And what did the 'D' stand for anyway?

It would have been comical—if he were in the mood, anyway—that Wolfwood called him 'kid' when he was obviously not much older than Vash himself. Sure, he looked a little rougher around the edges, but he was no old-timer himself. Vash got the feeling that he had maybe just lived a little harder than the average guy, survived one too many bar fights, and had one too many bottles of whisky that he didn't share. In a way, the 'kid' just caught him by surprise because here was someone treating him just like everyone else. Like he wasn't a killer. He wouldn't pretend that it wasn't just a little bit nice.

"No," Vash answered.

"Mind if I do?"

"No. Go ahead."

So the man lit up, took a long drag and then started talking, wispy clouds of gray streaming from his mouth with each syllable. Up into the fans. "Wolfwood. Nice to meet you." He never took his eyes off Vash, studying him.

"Vash Saverem," he said without a hint of life to his voice. They shook, Wolfwood's tobacco-stained fingers just a little shorter and squarer than Vash's. And then it was quiet again until Wolfwood asked, "You holding up okay, Saverem?"

Vash didn't answer that question, instead he asked one himself. "Did Chief Henry ask you to speak to me?"

"Yep," Wolfwood answered, his narrow eyes squinting at the other man through a veil of smoke.

"Listen, I'm okay. You don't have to give me a pep talk or anything." Vash squirmed a little when the detective continued to stare at him. Finally, he placed the shrinking cigarette in his mouth, left it there, and mumbled around it. "Okay? Sure. Right." He shook his head. "Come with me, kid."

And then he turned, opened the door, and started walking. Vash looked as confused as he felt, but eventually he stood, curious. Wolfwood stopped off at his desk, grabbed a heavy bag, and then headed for the stairs. Vash followed behind, feeling a little like a cat chasing a drunken rat since Wolfwood's course doubled back through the station. He talked as he went, a steady, friendly, meaningless monologue. Something about his voice reminded Vash of thick black coffee, spoken around the cigarette and accented as it was. It was pleasant—some people might call it smooth—but still a little difficult to understand and sometimes Vash felt like he was missing words here and there. It was an odd feeling. He'd been out east long enough to get used to the accent, but Wolfwood's was strangely...worse.

"Would you repeat that, please?" Vash requested feeling guilty for not being able to follow what was obviously English, or the detective's best stab at it. They were on the stairs, taking them at a jog.

"I said, 'The view's not as nice as it was at the old station.'" He said 'it was' like ''t'was' and lengthened his vowels like he was savoring the taste of them. He shouldered the bag and pushed open the door leading to the roof, all while the cigarette dangled from his lip as if it were magically glued there.

The detective dropped the heavy duffel on the ground and Vash recognized the sound of weaponry and ammo clinking together. Suddenly, he was worried, but Wolfwood was stretching and exclaiming about the weather, seemingly oblivious to the small bead of sweat that slid down Vash's cheek and the uncomfortable looks he was casting at the bag.

"Would you look at that sunshine!" he said and then wiggled out of his jacket. It was tossed onto the roof carelessly. Then Wolfwood loosened his tie and shirt with a relieved sigh. "Bloody noose," he grumbled. "Ever hear the one about men being the only ones dumb enough to wake up every morning and hang themselves?"

Vash nodded. He'd heard that one. Who hadn't? It hadn't been funny the first time. Or maybe it had been, but it certainly wasn't now.

His forced his eyes off the duffel bag and took a look around. It was a lovely day with cheesily perfect clouds drifting in a blue sky and the breeze fragranced with the smell of autumn blossoms and freshness. A flock of birds passed overhead, close enough that Vash could have counted their feathers if he had wanted to. It was perhaps the first time in his life when Vash felt like the sky could go to hell and take the stupid birds with it.

"Been to see Coop?" Wolfwood asked. It sounded like, 'Bin 'ta see Kuwp?'

"Yes."

"He's worried about you."

"I told him not to."

"And that just worked _wonders_, I bet. The man will never worry again! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!" Vash felt the corner of his mouth turn down. Rem had always told him that sarcasm wasn't necessary when honesty was present. Detective Wolfwood had obviously never heard that saying. He wasn't _cruel_, Vash realized, but he used sarcasm like he needed it to breathe.

He stared down at his feet, arms behind his back and would have been in full attention if he had raised his head. He just couldn't relax and didn't know what all this was about and why this important detective was wasting time on him. He could hear the sound of a zipper being unzipped. He looked up to see the dark-haired detective rummaging through the duffel.

"You don't have your piece on you," Wolfwood said out of the blue, pointing his new cigarette at Vash's empty holster.

Vash frowned. "No."

"So catch," Wolfwood said. Then, in disregard of every safety procedure he'd ever learned, pulled a gun from the duffel and tossed it to the rookie blindly. The kid caught it. Easily.

"Most rookies carry a Smith & Wesson 39, right? Can you use one of these?" Wolfwood asked. His attention was divided between the kid and the bag at his feet. He rifled through it, pulling out odds and ends and laying them on the ground before him.

"A Beretta?" Vash said. He was already checking the safety and the clip. Loaded. He flipped the safety off and then on again, cautiously. He did a fancy little trick that had the weapon swirling on the palm of his hand and then brought it up smoothly to sight down the barrel. "Yes," he answered.

Wolfwood gave a small laugh. Then he plopped onto his bottom on the warm roof, still smoking like a chimney, and began assembling a long-range rifle. He put it together well, but with a slowness that suggested it had been awhile since last he'd had to. He secured the sight, flipped open the cap, squinted through the small circle of glass, then flipped the cap back down. The last thing he slid into place was the weighty clip. There was a _click_ and the sound was heavy and portentous.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, standing with the dangerous-looking thing at his side.

Vash nodded. "They train sharpshooters with them at academy. They're for beginners," he said, trailing off. Wolfwood laughed, as if he found the other man's way of hinting at things without actually saying them pretty comical. As if he could still hear the, "What are _you_ doing with it" that Vash had made it a point _not_ to say.

"Yep," Wolfwood said. "And no, I'm no beginner, but I gotta admit, I was never much of a sharpshooter. I'm a good shot with my piece, but these things? I won't miss, but I don't like them. Too big when you're up close and not big enough when you're far away. I can't do things by halves. Give me an automatic I can holster or give me a rocket launcher I can shoulder. Any day."

Vash's clear eyes went wide and Wolfwood shook his head with a smile. "Just kidding, rookie. Besides, the Chief won't let me carry the rocket launcher any more. Said it was an insurance nightmare." Vash's eyes got even bigger and he felt his teeth grind together when Wolfwood chuckled at that. His agitation went unnoticed: the detective had moved to the ledge and hitched one hip onto it, leaning out over the street it as if the heights didn't bother him. Vash joined him when he was waved over.

"Would you believe they built this station—New Central—a whole two floors shorter than the old one? Yeah, the air conditioning inside's great, but the view up here's not as nice. Still, guess I can't complain. You can see a lot. You can see an awful hell of a lot."

Vash looked around too because it _was _an impressive view. The towers on the horizon sparkled in the low sun and the streets below looked just small enough to make you really feel the distance. Cars glided across the black lines, swerved in an out of the yellow and white, and the people driving them and the people they passed never wondered at all who was looking down at them. That was the way the world worked. You never notice anything until it's too late. And right now, Vash didn't like the feeling that he was missing something important—like what they were doing on the roof with firearms—and that he wasn't going to like it once he caught on.

"So you killed a man," Wolfwood said, casually. He was fiddling with the strap on the rifle, not looking at Vash at all. If he noticed when Vash's breath caught, when a tremor went from his head to toes, he didn't comment on it.

"Yes, sir."

"First time?"

"Yes."

"And on your first day, too. Stings, doesn't it? Killing."

The Beretta felt heavy in his hand and his palm was sweating. He wiped it on his slacks and shifted it from hand to hand. His reply was so quiet, he barely even heard it himself, wasn't sure if the detective did at all.

Wolfwood's cigarette traveled from one side of his mouth to the other, but he never looked up from adjusting the rifle.

"Heard the guy—Durer, right?—heard he and his buddies killed four people and wounded eight more. Heard you shot him before he could kill anyone else. Heard you took down the other two gunmen and that they're alive and under police watch at St. John's Hospital down the way. That so?"

"Yes, sir."

"_Also_ heard you followed procedure to the letter."

This time Vash didn't answer.

Wolfwood looked at him thoughtfully. "Ah. I see. Think you messed up, don't you? Your head's filled with all kinds of, 'If only I'd done _this_' and 'Maybe it would have been different if I'd done _that_.' Way _I_ figure it, you and Coop were the only one's out there and you did the best you could. But not you, eh? No, _you_ think you can save everyone, don't you?" He spat the words out like they disgusted him. "Damn bleeding hearts. You kill one guy, stop him from killing some other guy, and you're down and out already. One day on the job, shoes still shining from academy. Ready to limp away with your tail between your legs. One guy."

"One guy," Vash found himself hissing, "is one guy too many." He looked down at his fist and then at the gun. "Sir," he added, belatedly.

"That so? Guess you should have let him live, then. That way, he'd be alive and everyone _else_ in the room would be dead. How's that make you feel? Nice, clear conscious? Fair tradeoff?"

"You don't understand," Vash tried but he just sounded tired.

He looked up in time to see Wolfwood smirking at him. "You still want to be a cop, Saverem?" he asked in that coffee voice.

Vash's answer was a shake of his head, a small motion, like a finger twitching on a trigger. "I don't want to...kill," he added on a whisper.

"I see." Wolfwood suddenly threw his cigarette onto the ground, dropped to his knee, balanced the rifle on the ledge and lifted it to his shoulder. He flipped open the sight once more and hunched in so that he could stare through it. "See that park down there?"

Vash's throat was dry. Every nerve in his body was calling at him to drop his gun and get the rifle away from Wolfwood, too. His body felt heavy and sluggish. "Yes."

"See that woman with the baby carriage? On the bench?"

His eyes were good. He looked across the green grass, pale now in the fall, and saw her as a vague shape in the distance. But with that rifle, he knew Detective Wolfwood could read the logo on her purse. "Sir...I..." he tried weakly.

"Can. You. See. Her?"

"Yes. Sir."

"You ever used one of these?"

Vash wiped at the sweat off his forehead. "Detective...would you please—" he said and took a step forward.

"I said," Wolfwood shouted, "'Have you ever used one of these,' _Officer_ Saverem?" His voice was iron, vice-like, and all the laughing and joking from before was gone.

"Yes, sir." The words squeezed themselves from his throat. He felt dizzy.

"Good. That's better. You understand this rifle. You know that it can take her head off. Easy. She won't even see it coming because the tree she's under keeps her from seeing the glare off the sight. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. I can even get junior from up here. He's a cutie." Wolfwood's finger ghosted over the gun and flicked the safety off with a practiced motion. "He'll never cry again."

The Beretta went up, Vash's shoulder rolled back. "Detective. Sir. Drop it." His hands didn't shake; he didn't even blink.

Now Wolfwood laughed again. "Hey, why should I? You won't do a thing!" His shoulders shook, seemingly just to show Vash how very funny everything was. "I just heard you say you don't want to kill anyone! And you know what? Sometimes cops _have to_ kill people because that's what they fucking signed up for. But I thought I heard you say you don't even want to be a cop anymore! Don't want to be a cop? Don't want to kill? Don't want to save that pretty girl and her baby? Lucky me: I can clear the whole fucking park out and you'll just stand there."

And Vash did see the contradictions—had seen them all along—because he wasn't dumb, but that still didn't mean he wanted to do what he knew he was supposed to as a cop. And right now he couldn't even think about ideals like that because all he could see was that there were dozens of people below: jogging and walking their dogs and having picnics and being alive, but dammit if that rifle didn't hold a magazine big enough to take them all out. And he'd seen what it could do. At academy, in the training videos, on the training range. So much power, so much speed. So precise. He didn't want to see it here, now, on this roof on the woman and the baby...

Wolfwood had stopped talking and his silence was too terrible because it meant that he was lining up the little crosshairs with the girls head or her heart or centering the baby's forehead right between them and...

And the gun was so heavy and terrible in his hand and there was this pulse in his head like he could drown in it and the girl was just sitting there like she wanted to be a victim and there was the baby who maybe couldn't even walk yet and why did he feel like he had swallowed molten lead and that breathing was something he'd never do again because, because, because...

Because Wolfwood was alive too and he didn't want to make this choice. Not again, so soon, and why didn't she run and the baby was there and couldn't run and...

"Sir! Drop the gun. NOW!"

"Sorry, Saverem," he said and his finger slid back.

Vash screamed and there was a single shot and the smell was too much and the smoke and the heat cloying at him. Once it all cleared, his eyes widened at the wet, steady trickle on Wolfwood's shoulder.

"Ouch," the man said weakly and rolled away from the ledge. The rifle tumbled to the rooftop. Vash hesitated. Then his feet took over and he ran to Wolfwood's side but spared one look at the woman so far away, sitting there peacefully, maybe singing a song to her chubby little baby. Safe.

He dropped down next to the other man—he didn't relax his gun arm because that was a mistake waiting to happen because no way did this guy down that easy—and gaped at the spreading stain on his arm. The stain was wet and dripping and...more orange than red. Suspiciously, he ran his fingers over the mess and then rubbed them together.

"Y-you...you fucking shot me!" Wolfwood screamed.

"P-paint?" Vash stuttered and then looked at the Beretta. Scrutinized it and still couldn't see the difference. It was remarkable. This would fool _anyone_. It made him eye the rifle suspiciously, wondering exactly if everything was what it seemed here. "Paint?"

"You shot me! Those things _hurt_ you know!" He staggered to his feet and glared at the inky color on his shirt. "You fucking _shot_ me!"

Vash's head was spinning. "The bullets weren't real? It was just paint and you...you...Why you sneaky, underhanded..." Vash began, seething. He gently lowered the paint gun onto the roof, rose to his full height—

—and then tackled the detective.

"What the hell do you think you're trying to pull!"

"Oof! Watch the _shirt_, beanpole!"

"You sick, demented..."

"Whoa! That was almost my _nose!_"

"Big enough target so...ouch!"

It was a pretty sloppy fight with Wolfwood too mad about a good shirt and being shot to do more than wrestle and Vash too shaken by the deception to punch with much accuracy. Luckily for their egos, one bump in the roof tripped up both their feet, ending the fight before it could get more pathetic. Vash stumbled back and found himself pinned beneath Detective Wolfwood who weighed a lot more than he looked. He coughed and squirmed because the roof was too hot on his back through his blues.

"—lousy no good..." he said, too winded to put much feeling into it.

"Aww, can it," Wolfwood said and rolled off the other man and onto his back with a grunt. He draped one arm over his eyes to block the sun, but Vash kept his eyes open, staring up at the blue sky and gold sun. It would be dark soon. Daylight fading.

They lay there for a long time, looking miserable and sweating. Finally, Wolfwood sat up, lit a cigarette—this one crumpled—and squinted off into the distance. Vash followed his lead, but looked off the other way.

"Hey, sorry, kid," Wolfwood said after a minute. He spoke in a voice that was calm, but more than a little sad. It was the first time Vash had him sound like this, one click shy of haunted and a whole mile past hurt. Vash stole a glance at him and saw that his expression matched it.

"It was a lousy trick, I know that. But...it was a trick someone played on me and it worked so I figured, why not? See, my T.O.—his name was Hudson—well, he was a mean son of a bitch, but he was smart. We got a call. Convenience store robbery. So we're five minutes away and we get there just in time to see the robbers run from the store, one with a rifle and the other with this old automatic and who knows where he got it. But me and my T.O., we fold out of the car, tell them to freeze. And the guy with the rifle drops it, but the other guy, he just stops where he is, lifts his gun and aims right at my T.O.'s head. Just like that," he said and lifted his arm out towards to sky and pulled the invisible trigger before letting it fall back to his side. "And he shoots. But Hudson was no easy mark and he ducks it but the guy takes off running, still shooting, and he's fast. He just fires again and again and I'm frozen in my tracks cause there's all these rules, but..."

Wolfwood was silent for a minute as if the scene was fresh, vibrant, playing out before his eyes. "And he's just shooting. Bang, bang, bang and...well...Hudson can't duck everything and I can't even see his legs to shoot them...so I take the guy down. Clean, single shot to the heart." He swallowed heavily. "He was thirteen. Just a kid who wanted the cash for something dumb like fancy shoes or a fancy jacket and what the hell was he thinking? But, you wanna hear the funny thing? You'll get a kick. It was my first day as a full officer. Isn't that a laugh? Killed a kid on my first day. Just a kid who made a bad choice."

Wolfwood opened his mouth but let it snap shut. "Damn, stupid kid," he said after a minute.

"I'm sorry," Vash said, earnestly. He got the picture now, understood why Henry had sent Wolfwood to talk to him. He understood all too well.

"Hell, kid, _I'm _sorry. I can't say I know exactly how you feel but I can say I get the idea. I wanted to quit bad. Put my badge on Henry's desk and said 'Never again' because I had all these pretty ideas that just don't hold up outside your head. Hudson set me straight. Scared the shit out of me. Thought he was gonna pull that trigger...and...hell..." he said with a fond chuckle. "Did I mention he was a son of a bitch?"

"Yeah, you might have said something like that."

"Well, he was. Mean, grizzly old fart. Taught me a lot." And Wolfwood didn't have to spell out the lesson, didn't have to say anything more because, yeah, it had spelled itself out. Pretty clearly, too.

He rose to his feet gracefully, glared at his sleeve, and then headed to the guns. He left Vash to think while he took the rifle apart, slid the clip from the Beretta, and put everything back into the duffel. The sound of the zipper closing was final and strangely comforting for Vash. He didn't stand to join him though, and the best way to describe his posture was 'sulking'.

Wolfwood moved past him as if he considered the matter over, but then he stopped and crouched down next to him, staring down at his lowered head. He didn't clutch his shoulder or pat his back. None of those false comforts. Instead he said, bluntly, almost in a cruel tone of voice:

"I'm not going to tell you it's okay. And I'm not going to offer my services if you need someone to talk to, understand?"

There was a pause. "Yes, sir," Vash answered finally.

"Good. I'm also not going to try and persuade you to stay on the force. Do you know why?"

"No."

"It's because you have no intention of quitting."

He looked ready to argue and there was a little spark of fire in his eyes that Wolfwood liked because it meant he hadn't rolled over and died yet. "How do you know? I could—"

"But you won't, Saverem. And how I know that is because nobody learns to shoot like you do without knowing what they're getting into first. You've got your reasons for why you learned to kill and why you don't like to. I'm sure you've got a million reasons in that blonde head of yours for all the things you do. And you don't have to tell them to the Chief. And you sure as hell don't have to tell them to me."

Vash looked at him wearily as if he was weighing the words but not letting them sink in because he had wrapped himself so tight in this sulk that it would take more than a single day to undo it.

"What you do have to do, is your job. And if your job says you have to kill someone, you do it because it's what you signed up for. What you have to do is realize that if you'd let that one live, he'd have killed dozens. You think about that while you sit there feeling sorry for yourself."

He stood then and looked so calm and relaxed that Vash doubted it was real. "The rest of the world would call you a hero," the detective whispered in that rough voice.

Wolfwood turned his back and started walking away with long, even strides. Vash found words slipping past his lips and he couldn't say where they came from because he didn't want to say them.

"It hurts."

Wolfwood stopped. He didn't turn around. "It always will, kid," he said softly. "That's how you know you're alive. Worry when it stops hurting."

Vash felt his mouth open as if he intended to say something in reply, but no words came. It was a moment before his jaw snapped shut again and he lowered his head. Wolfwood took three steps and then stopped again. He looked over his shoulder. Something in his tone of voice suggested that he was fighting with himself over whether to say anything at all as he said, "So...you wanna get a drink, kid? You look like you could use one."

Vash looked up sharply into a pair of dark blue eyes made darker by the fading light. He didn't understand them or the man they belonged to. But maybe...

"I-I...Yes. I'd like that, sir."

"Well then drop the 'sir' shit and move your butt or I'm leaving without you," Wolfwood said and started walking, his posture showing that he was confident that Vash was right behind him. He was.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Thanks to readers and reviewers alike. You know I nub you! 

Poor Zazie. He only gets a cameo in the flashback of a flashback. Sucks to be him. Forgive the change in writing style. I've been reading too much of a certain author and it's messing with me.

Up Next: "Okay, kid, tell me what you see," he said and a long trail of smoke floated from his lips. If any of the surprised cops all around him had had the brass to ask what the hell he thought he was doing, he couldn't have answered because, dammit, Saverem _was_ just a rookie, but he was smart and he had good instincts and maybe he wouldn't be a beat cop forever. The skinny blonde took a nervous step forward. "Um...well...he didn't die here?" he said, making it a question even though he was sure simply because...well, just _because_. Wolfwood considered him for a moment, then smiled. "Good," he complimented. "Tell me more."


	23. Leatherman, Part III

Warnings: Violence, disturbing content, drug use, homosexual themes, adult language, pacing from hell, passive voice from hell, angst, angst, angst. Not beta-read, as always.

The Story So Far:

A little over three years before Wolfwood takes on the Picasso case...

Young Detective Wolfwood of the May City Police Department is enjoying the success of having captured two of the city's most wanted serial killers. Now he's been assigned to the Leatherman case, hunting another serial killer. One who stalks young men with eccentric tastes. A new officer on the force named Vash Saverem has becoming Wolfwood's concern after Saverem single-handedly stopped a shooting spree, killing the culprit and falling into a guilt-wrought depression.

I think we left off right about _here:_

_Vash felt his mouth open as if he intended to say something in reply, but no words came. It was a moment before his jaw snapped shut again and he lowered his head. Wolfwood took three steps and then stopped again. He looked over his shoulder. Something in his tone of voice suggested that he was fighting with himself over whether to say anything at all as he said, "So...you wanna get a drink, kid? You look like you could use one."_

_Vash looked up sharply into a pair of dark blue eyes made darker by the fading light. He didn't understand them or the man they belonged to. But maybe..._

_"I-I...Yes. I'd like that, sir."_

_"Well then drop the 'sir' shit and move your butt or I'm leaving without you," Wolfwood said and started walking, his posture showing that he was confident that Vash was right behind him. He was._

The story continues.

* * *

Part XXXV: Leatherman

Part III

* * *

The commissioner was a busy guy. For being top cop and fat cat, he was also a down to earth kind of guy. Fond of Wolfwood, drinking buddy with Forrester Henry, and owner of a keen eye for the ladies that made his wife leave him every couple of years. 

He was rail-thin and kept his wild graying hair in a ponytail that made him look a little bad. He smoked big, nasty cigars and parked in handicapped spaces. He was a good guy. Mostly. His name was John Wayne Jefferson because his father had worshiped the Duke.

"So you're on the Leatherman case?" Jefferson said and his cigar bobbed with every word. His office, inside the smooth, secure-feeling stone and marble of city hall, was big and comfortable. Someone cleaned it twice a week. His wife demanded that that someone be a man after that embarrassing incident three years ago with a little Spanish cutie with her little dust pan and her little broom and her very little skirt.

"Yeah, not for long, but it's mine for awhile. Till Burke gets all fixed up."

"Have you been to see him?"

"He's doing okay. He's lost weight."

The commissioner laughed. "Probably for the best."

In the corner, Chief Henry glared at his friend. "You're an old bastard, talkin' about a sick man, John."

"He'd agree with me!"

Henry shook his head. "How's Saverem?" he asked quickly and in the tone of voice he used whenever he was trying to keep his friend from saying something else stupid.

Wolfwood didn't answer right away as if he were searching for the best way to express exactly what Vash was. Finally, he settled on, "Better."

And he remembered the night before. He remembered it through a haze of booze that wasn't enough to cloud up and cover up...well_...Vash_.

He remembered Vash crying at some point (at some _pint_), barely keeping himself upright on the barstool. And he remembered him laughing hysterically at another. He was one of the most amusing drunks Wolfwood had ever seen simply by virtue of being unpredictable. One minute he was a one-man vaudeville routine and the next he was as serious as a mortician.

_"My folks," he had said in between long sips of frothy beer, "were hippies."_

_"What, they went around chaining themselves to trees and singing about...buying the world a coke?"_

_"Nah!" Vash had countered and laughed too loudly. "They only chained themselves to trees in the spring! And they wouldn't let me drink coke because they said it was an 'Evil Corporation' and that 'Besides, the sugar will rot your teeth.'"_

_Wolfwood had blinked at him a few times. "You serious?"_

_"Yep! They adopted me when I was thhhhis big and took care of me like it didn't make a difference. I don't even remember the orphanage. We lived in Bloomington. Oh, you've never heard of it, either? Well...it's near July, but north of there and more...hick. It's the east coast's answer to New York State: nothing but cows and suburbs. Then Alex, that was my dad, he...died and Rem said there was nothing keeping us in Bloomington. So we moved out here my junior year of high school. I went to college then on to police academy and...here I am! They were good people: Rem and Alex. I never called them 'mom' and 'dad'. It's funny. I never did. I miss them."_

_Wolfwood hadn't wanted to ask, but the words had found their way past his lips anyway. "What happened to your mom?"_

_"Oh, she died two years ago. Cancer. She fought it but..." he had shrugged and stared into his beer. "She lived a good life."_

_"And Alex...how did he die?"_

_The answer had been slow in coming. "He was a cop. I think he was good at what he did. Maybe he was too good. We came home and found him on the ground in a puddle of..." Vash had stopped suddenly to take a deep breath. His hand had started to shake and beer had sloshed on his hand before he sat the mug down quickly. "They stabbed him 40 times. There had been," and here he'd choked, "so much of it. On the wall. On the ceiling."_

Wolfwood strained to hear what the commissioner was saying over the echoing memory of Vash's sad, slurred voice from the night before. "Saverem, Saverem...This the new officer I hear so much about? The one that handled the hostage situation?"

"That's him," Henry answered hastily then turned back to Wolfwood. "I'm glad you helped him out, Nick. I know it probably wasn't easy for you to talk to him. I mean, you two are very...different."

_"I'm...I'm sorry," he'd said after Vash had fallen quiet and he felt now like he'd felt then that it had been a stupid thing to say because what the hell good did it do? But Vash had forced a smile at him as if had appreciated the effort. "Thank you," he'd said and his eyes had been so clear and so honest and open that Wolfwood had looked away. _

_"No problem...kid. But listen to this!" he'd boomed drawing the attention of cops and regulars nearby. "I'm supposed to be cheering you up and we're talking about sad things! Let me buy you another!"_

_"I've still got most of this one."_

_"Then finish it up so you can get smashed properly!" And Vash had looked so close to smiling. So close. But then he'd dropped his head onto the grubby table and his shoulders had started to shake. "I killed him," he'd said around a sob. It had taken awhile to distract him from that. Somehow, they'd ended up playing the Kevin Bacon game. Vash won every round._

_"Don't you watch movies?" he'd asked Wolfwood when he hadn't even been able to connect Tom Cruise and Kevin Bacon ("Come on!" he'd cried. "This one's a freebie! You can't handle the truth! Ring any bells? Come on, you've got to know this one!). _

_"Not really," Wolfwood had answered vaguely. _

_"So, what do you do for fun?"_

_Wolfwood had frowned at him. "I hang out here," he'd answered after a minute and waved his beer at the bar in general._

_"You should get a hobby."_

_And Wolfwood had taken the opening in the conversation and run with it because as long as Vash was giving him ridiculous ideas for hobbies, he wasn't thinking about Durer or his dad. He was laughing. He was okay._

_"Basket weaving," Wolfwood had repeated and raised a brow. "You're a sick, sick bastard."_

_"Hey! The world is full of thousands of respectable people who weave baskets. But fine, no basket weaving. How about _underwater _basket weaving?" _

_But later that night when he'd helped the swaying, giggling officer out of the cab they'd shared and wrestled him up the steps to his door, Vash had leaned on him heavily like his feet had already called it a night and then said, "Detective, can I ask you a question?"_

_"Yeah, kid. What is it?"_

_"How did you cope? It was your first day as a cop and on your first day you kill someone for the first time. And it was just a kid. How did you pull through that?" He had looked like he wanted to know so that he could try the same trick because whatever he was doing now wasn't helping. He wanted to find a way to stay a cop but beat the system that said he had to kill. And if he couldn't beat the system, he wanted to beat the pain._

_Wolfwood had been silent for a moment looking down at Vash's face in shadow, his slouched posture making him seem much shorter. He hadn't known why he was even humoring answering at all, more or less with the truth. But the words had popped out as easily as anything ever had. _

_"Listen, kid. Remember how I said that I didn't know exactly how you felt, but that I had an idea? What I meant is, yeah, I killed a kid on my first day as a cop, but..." he'd swallowed, fought with himself, and then just given in. For some sick reason, he trusted Saverem. He did._

_"But he wasn't. The first person I killed," he had said simply. The words had seemed to echo._

_Vash had frozen with his arm around Wolfwood and Wolfwood's around his, both of them barely standing, but Wolfwood doing a better job at it from lots and lots of practice. Vash would have to live a lot harder to catch up to him in the drunken maneuvers department._

_"Who...who...? When...?" Vash had tried, his head shaking and his keys slipping away from the lock. Wolfwood had felt this strange stab in his ribcage that told him he had deceived the kid, and that he was a bastard for it. But he hadn't really. He had never told him that the kid he'd shot had been his first kill. Saverem had just interpreted it that way. He hadn't lied to him, he just felt like he had and that if Saverem wanted to haul off and punch him for it, he couldn't blame him. He'd wanted to drown his sorrows with someone who understood them, and Wolfwood couldn't be that person. _

_In the silence that followed Wolfwood had taken the keys from him and gotten the door open easily. "Well," he had said resignedly, "I'd tell you all about it, but juvenile records are sealed for a reason. It seems a waste to kick the system in the ass like that by shooting my mouth off."_

_And when he'd expected a look of terror or revulsion or something to show that Saverem was anything less than drunk and grateful for someone to listen to him, he'd been given a smile and a squeeze on the shoulder instead. "G'night, Detective."_

_"G'night, Officer." The door had closed. He'd made it home and slept without dreaming but had awoken with a hangover and a frown. The hangover was his own fault. The frown he blamed on Vash. Vash who hadn't mentioned the conversation since. Like it didn't matter._

"Nah," Wolfwood said with an oddly bitter voice. "You've got it wrong, Henry. We're not different at all; we're just alike. It's enough to make me sick."

Henry and Jefferson were both quiet for a minute, staring at him with puzzled expressions on their faces.

Henry looked like he understood too much. Jefferson merely coughed nervously. "Now, Nick!" he said and smiled too widely. "Let's change the subject! You know we all keep an eye on you up here," he said.

"Yeah," Wolfwood answered with a smirk. He got the feeling sometimes that the whole city was watching him. It wasn't a bad thing most times. The press was more than influential, more than powerful and he'd learned how to use them to his advantage long ago. But sometimes. Yeah, sometimes, he had to admit that he wanted a little breathing room. He wanted the ability to make a mistake like everyone else. But he couldn't, could he? Everyone was watching him, waiting for him to slip up bad so they could say, "We told you he was too young, didn't we?"

"And we like what we see!" Jefferson continued. "You're the smartest decision the force has ever made and I'm not just saying that. You remember how everybody told you that you were too young to take the exam to enter the detective unit but me and Forrester argued them down?"

"Yes, sir," Wolfwood said.

"Don't do that 'sir' routine with me! I've known you a long time. Me and Forrester both have. I just want to tell you that...well...this case, this Leatherman case, well, three serial killers in a row is nothing to scoff at. If you catch this one, your career is set. Hell, you'll make lieutenant. And nobody can argue that you're too young to make lieutenant because you'll have earned your stripes."

"Lay off the kid," Henry said with a groan. "He knows what's ridin' on this."

"Do you?" Jefferson asked and his sharp brown eyes focused on Wolfwood. "I'm not so sure. I don't know how to say this nice so I'll just say it fast. This is Burke's case and when he's out of the hospital, he'll get it back. But wouldn't it be better if _you_ solved it before he could take it back from you? If it was your name on all the little forms? If you did it on your own? No spooks from the FBI lurking over you shoulder like with Bay Bridge?" Jefferson paused as if he couldn't go on, caught up in the midst of his own dream for Wolfwood.

"I want you to show them that Bay Bridge and Brookside weren't flukes," he continued after a moment. "That they weren't luck. And I think you want that, too."

Wolfwood listened without interrupting, but the muscles at his jaw flexed with the clenching of his teeth. Henry looked at him and his eyes were worried but he stayed quiet.

Finally, Jefferson finished with, "Can you do it, Detective? Can you prove them all wrong?"

Wolfwood had looked up, surprised to find that his head had dropped and that he had been staring at the floor as if in defeat. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

* * *

His name was Bradley Monev and he had made a mistake, twice. Three times. The third one he was making now, though he could not know it, with his hands slowly closing in tighter and tighter around the thin neck and the breath he could feel constrained inside it growing weaker and weaker. 

He tried not to think about the first one because it squirmed inside him like a restless eel and made him feel sick.

The kill had been his fifth and he had been overconfident. He hadn't locked the door.

The boy's name had been Jason, but he was known around town as Prince. He'd been lovely with soft dark curls and an accent too hard to place. Bradley had seen him and been so envious, so mesmerized by the aura of the boy, by his grace and beauty and false airs. His father had made it rich on oil and then made it richer on drugs. He hadn't blinked when his own son got hooked on the products he shipped hidden inside crates of sugar and tea leaves.

Jason had come to the big city to play all the way from daddy's high-security country estate. He had told his story with enough smack running through his veins to make his world shake and spark though no one else could see the colors. Jason had liked to have fun. He'd said he wanted to try new things, didn't mind experimenting because, hey, that's why he came _here_ wasn't it? Not really his scene, but he'd wanted to see for himself the men and women in nothing but metal and leather. Jason had liked to be fucked.

He'd been a fighter, even with the dope.

And that had become a problem because screams attract attention. Attention made him nervous. And one day, when Jason was deliciously too loud, he had gotten nervous. Worried. He had realized that he couldn't keep his little Prince _here_ any longer. He'd had to be moved.

Back road, heading out of midtown at 50mph, Jason had opened the door and rolled onto the street. And what had been Bradley's options watching his prey tumble away from him in the rearview? He couldn't have let him get away. Couldn't have let him _tell_. So he'd stopped the car and chased him for six blocks because—even concussed, even pumping chemicals like a dam pumps water—Jason had been fast.

What were the odds that someone had seen him in that dying neighborhood at that time of night? Infinitesimal. Barely registering on the scale. But they had. Bradley had been in his gear. Stupid. Overconfident. So high on the thrill of it all that he'd been sure the cops would never have anything on him.

But thanks to that one mistake—a pair of faultless eyes watching him pummel Jason into submission and drag his pretty, battered body back to the van—the cops had more than just speculations about gang rapes and initiations and hazing. They had a witness.

"Like a monster," they'd quoted in all the newspapers. "Huge. All in black leather. From head to toe. A leather man. A monster."

And so he'd been giving a name.

Leatherman.

He'd made Jason pay for his little act of defiance. He hadn't really wanted to escape, that much was clear. He had said no many times in many different, orchestral, pained voices, but each one had only sounded like encouragement. Jason hadn't _really_ wanted him to stop. Of course not. He'd wanted it. Over and over.

But, just like the others, Jason hadn't lasted. His bronze body had started to shake violently at the end of the fifth day.

And he'd been begging for another track to add to all the ones he already had—the inside of his arm a mess with them—since day one, but Bradley had always ignored him. Red and purple and dotted and scabbing, somehow, those scars—the proof of his addiction—were more vivid, more telling, than the new ones covering his back and flanks.

Jason had broken himself long before the Leatherman got there.

He'd made a mistake. Another one. He'd panicked because rich daddy had been looking for his little lost son and was on the news every night crying and crying and begging for his return. Besides, after a day of Jason drooling and sweating and straining weakly against his bonds for needles and powders and little pills, Leatherman had found himself too disgusted to even touch him. He hadn't wanted to go near him at all.

By day six he hadn't been speaking in English anymore but had babbled on in that strange rolling language of his to people who weren't there.

He hadn't wanted this...thing...this boy who was addicted and already broken. Nothing to envy any longer. Nothing to wish he could be.

Jason had had to go. If rich daddy had wanted him back, he could have him. But the choice to kill him had been taken away from him; Jason had died during the night and the morning had found him dangling by his wrists in a slump, tongue dry and purple and hanging from his mouth. His eyes had been bloodshot and wide, his body rigid and reeking.

So he'd cleaned him up, and dumped him somewhere far away. The feeling as he watched the body tumble into the woods had been difficult for him to describe and his mind had been busy with a million dissenting thoughts. He hadn't killed Jason at all, and it left him feeling odd and empty. If he didn't take them, they couldn't become a part of him. They were just lost. Floating.

Everything about that little Prince had been a mistake. He tried to forget about Prince.

But today, he was making another one. Because this one, his Angel...

He'd called himself Angel and hadn't he been? Hadn't he been? In God's own image. Something for mankind to strive for. An ideal.

Angel had _been_ the night. His hair dyed midnight black and his nails painted the same, he hadn't walked so much as glided through shadows. Bradley's throat had gone dry just watching him dance that way, pressed up against anyone who would touch him. He'd moved like he was starved for touch, desperate for it. Like he'd kneel and worship anyone who would give it to him. But Angel hadn't wanted to go with him. Maybe he'd been watching the news and decided no session was worth the risk. Maybe he could just read people better than the others. None of it had mattered.

When he'd dropped the little tablet into Angel's drink, he'd felt so powerful knowing that everything from here on was up to him.

Angel had been doing so well. His body was pure pleasure. Beautiful. Breakable. But today Angel collapsed. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body shook and shook like an earthquake filled his skin. Slapping him didn't help. There was something...wrong with him. He got the feeling it had something to do with the bottle of prescription pills he had seen in Angel's bag before he got rid of it. About midday, he lost consciousness suddenly, which was terrifying too, but at least the tremors had stopped.

Angel was still alive, and maybe he'd live for a long time and be fun to play with if he got him some help...but...but...

No.

Angel had to go. He was...not what he had seemed.

Angel had to go. He wanted to kiss him one last time, but that wasn't possible. Instead, he stroked his gloved hand down his clammy cheek and then down to his neck where it was joined by a second hand. And together they squeezed, the pressure closing off oxygen and widening Angel's hazel eyes.

Angel hadn't had enough strength left in his thin body to even jerk as life left him. He'd simply shuddered weakly and then gone still.

It felt better this time because, in killing them, a part of them joined him and made him more like them, more like these beautiful butterfly creatures who moved through the night like dancers on a stage just for him. Angel would always be with him now, timeless, perfect, like he had been before the tremors and the madness made him something no one would want.

He found a place, dark and unnoticed, and parked. And as silently as he could, he moved, pushing and dragging the body and then let it go. It hit the pavement and the tried not to notice the sick sound of it, like wet, bloody meat slamming onto marble.

And then he fled wondering if he'd really gotten away with anything at all, but too aware of the fact that he wouldn't stop even if he hadn't. Couldn't stop.

* * *

Wolfwood shifted the phone on his shoulder. "...said they found the body when they were 'passing through.' 'tween you and me, they look like a couple of college frat boys out to buy some smack but they was as clean as they come. Ah, well, can't bust 'em all. Iiiineeway, when we got a look at the getup on the corpse, we figured to call you in, seeing as how you're takin' over for Burke." 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. Where?" Wolfwood listened to the details with the air of someone in a hurry, but too polite to tell the guy on the other end of the line to spit it out already. He teetered a bit, the phone balanced between his ear and shoulder and a notepad resting on his knee and scribbled down the address. Multi-tasking was the enemy of equilibrium, he decided.

"Be there in ten," he said and then added, "I'm bringing some friends."

He hung up, grabbed his jacket and hustled onto the floor. Rubbing his hands together, his eyes scanning over the bustling station. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and looked anxious to light it. "Lessee, lessee, lessee," he said. "Who can I borrow?"

His eyes swung to the right, considering each officer. _No good. Busy. On probation. Lazy. Stupid. Busy. Annoying. No good. No good..._

Then to the left. _No good. No good._ And then, suddenly, _Aa-hah!_

Tall, blonde and goofy. More than he seemed. Not the least bit busy today. And even if he was...

"Saverem!" he bellowed. He hadn't seen the kid for any real length of time in over two days. He wondered...well...he wondered a lot of things. On top of his list was why he'd opened his big mouth that night and told the kid things he didn't need to hear. Next was why he wouldn't leave well enough alone and let the kid get on with his life. He didn't have the answers so he pushed the questions from his mind.

"Detective?" the rookie squeaked and stood too quickly, sending a flurry of papers to the ground.

"Cute, kid," Wolfwood chuckled. "First, clean that up. Then grab a unit and follow me." He whirled on his feet, adjusting his holster and slipping his jacket on as he went.

"Where are we going?"

"Out!"

"Out _where_?"

"Outside!" he called over his shoulder with a smile in his voice.

* * *

It was already a well tread-on crime scene by the time Wolfwood and party arrived. First on the scene jogged over and spoke to him in his slow, casual way. He was just as longwinded in person. 

All around, officers in blue were stringing up the old tape like Christmas lights, reigning in the press, and generally keeping busy.

Wolfwood walked forward, the unit he'd dragged with him gathering around him as well as a small army of men and women with notepads. The notepads were flipped open and pens poised above them while they waited for Wolfwood to detail the scene.

The body at his feet was stiff and battered, but strangely clean. Underneath all the leather and straps there were scars that peeked out, livid and red. But there wasn't any blood. There wasn't a sign of a struggle. There was nothing here but the grubby corner facing an alley and the body laying on it, almost peacefully if it weren't for the rigored fingers and limbs.

He crouched down, shifted from side to side, then stood again and backed away. He took a minute to light a cigarette with his already tobacco-stained fingers and then glanced around. His eyes settled on Vash who was staring at the body with a speculative look on his face.

"Hey, rookie," he said.

Saverem jumped a little and looked at him in surprise. "Sir?"

"You seeing something?"

Saverem looked from side to side nervously. "Yes..." he mumbled and seemed to be squirming under his skin in awareness of all the eyes trained on him.

"Okay, kid," Wolfwood said and a long trail of smoke floated from his lips. "Tell me what you see."

If any of the surprised cops all around him had the brass to ask what the hell he thought he was doing, Wolfwood couldn't have answered. It just seemed like a good idea, because, dammit, Saverem _was_ just a rookie, but he was smart and he had good instincts and maybe he wouldn't be a beat cop forever. And maybe it was because, ever since their little chat on the roof, since their drunken night out, he'd gotten the feeling that Saverem was dying for a chance to prove himself, to show everyone that he could handle this. Wolfwood thought back to the way the kid had caught the Beretta, to the way he'd moved with it, smooth like a snake across the sand. He handled a gun like it was just another part of his arm and Wolfwood knew from his record that any caliber would be under his control. You could probably give the kid a submachine gun and he'd use it like a pro.

'Yes,' he'd said when Wolfwood had asked if he could use a Beretta. Not 'Of course,' or 'No problem.' Just yes.

Wolfwood had wanted to hear a note of arrogance in the kid's voice, and maybe he _had_ heard something like that. But then maybe it had just been his imagination. Not knowing the difference bothered him because, yeah, the kid was hurting. Bad. And maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if he could look at what he was—a damn good cop and a bloody miracle with anything that went bang—and take pride in that. Vash didn't seem to have much pride right now. Wolfwood wondered if maybe he had. Once. So maybe it—this— was because he wanted to give it back to him.

Hell, maybe it was just because they shared a joke once without exchanging a word. Maybe it was because he'd told the kid almost the whole truth. Almost was better than what everyone else got, which was nothing at all like the truth.

The skinny blonde took a nervous step forward and looked from the corpse to the detective. His eyes narrowed and he turned his head from side to side. "Um...well...he didn't die here?" he said, making it a question even though he was sure simply because...well, just _because_.

"How can you tell?"

Vash looked a little lost, and then suddenly, he didn't look lost at all anymore. "The are no signs of a struggle though he's been strangled. This is a street corner: if he'd been strangled here, somebody would have heard. The body was dumped here and in a hurry. Whoever did it didn't stay long enough to arrange the limbs. They just left him where he fell. And those scars on his back are old. Maybe over a week old but it's hard to tell. He smells clean. Antiseptic. Somebody cleaned him up and got rid of him here."

Wolfwood considered Vash for a moment then smiled. "Good," he complimented. Tell me more." He looked at the notebook brigade and raised an eyebrow. "You getting this?" he asked and the lot of them jumped and started scribbling with a range of expressions on their faces from disbelief to shock.

"Okay. Continue."

"Um..." Saverem's eyes darted to the men and their notebooks and then back to Wolfwood. "Really?"

"Really."

So he took a deep, nervous breath and told him what he saw. And when he was done, Wolfwood grinned at him in that way of his that Vash couldn't quite describe and then nodded at him in what he hoped was approval. Then the detective turned away and started handing out orders. "Get that typed. Call the bone crew over, get him out of here. Get me set up with the press. They've got to be good for something and somebody has to know who this boy is. I want an ID on my desk by lunch. Make that an ID and a forensics report."

"Detective," was the reply to each order as if that was the only word in their vocabulary. Vash watched all the other men around him take their assignments and rush off to complete them. After five minutes, he was the only one without something to do. And it was a little strange to find that all _he _could say was, "Detective," in reply, too, when Wolfwood looked at him and said, "You're with me."

* * *

_Three months later..._

It was always Harpers. It had to be the safest bar in all of May City because cops flocked to it like it was Mecca and the pilgrimage was a nightly event.

He laughed a lot at Harpers. He gave and got a lot of headlocks, got treated to a lot of rounds and sneakily managed not to treat back. No one had noticed yet, but he was sure they would eventually.

He recalled singing at Harpers even when no one else was, but that was usually after he'd lost count. When _all_ the girls—and not just the pretty ones—started to look like pretty girls. Everyone at Harpers was a beautiful flower five beers later.

They talked about cop dramas and bad cop movies at Harpers. They never talked about their current cases, but sometimes they relived their glory days. Especially if the old-timers came along.

"It was just me and Captain Vasquez," Henry said on a rare night out with his crew. "We kicked in the door, cried for everyone to drop 'em and freeze! Six of them did, but wouldn't you know it, one cocky bastard jumped over the couch. Why do they always jump over the couch?"

Yeah, it was always at Harpers. When Cooper got out of hospital, the party had been at Harpers. They'd rented out the back room and done karaoke until their throats were sore. Vash had smelled like an ashtray when he got home, passed out anyway, and had gone to work the next day _still_ smelling like an ashtray. He hadn't even cared. Things were...good. Coop was back and safe. He didn't have nightmares about that day anymore. He didn't think about death and blood all the time. He liked his job. He liked his co-workers. He liked Harpers.

And Wolfwood was always there.

* * *

"How's the Leatherman case coming?" Jefferson asked with forced levity in his voice. 

"It's...going," Wolfwood admitted. "I spoke to the parents of the last victim. They...well...they weren't cooperative. I guess I can't blame them. Nobody wants to admit that their son was into what their son was into."

"And what exactly _was_ he into?"

Wolfwood looked surprised. "I sent you my report."

"I'm a busy man. Humor me. Was it that bad?"

"Yes, sir. It was that bad. Heavy shit. Drugs, the leather scene. From what I've learned, it's amazing he lived as long as he did. The drugs we confiscated from his apartment react negatively to the medication he was on."

"Medication?"

"He was epileptic. Forensics tells me he had the mother of all seizures before he was strangled to death. Our boy Leatherman probably panicked when his toy started twitching. He killed him after only about a week of captivity. He's kept others for much, much longer."

"Hmmm. Any prints? Fluids?"

Wolfwood shook his head. "No. He's clumsy, but not that clumsy. There was plenty of touchy, plenty of feely, but he covered up his tracks. And even if we could get a trace of sperm or saliva chances of a DNA match to any of our suspects will be damn near impossible. Those tests _fail_ 90 percent of the time. The ten percent when they don't doesn't help win trials. Our best bet right now is tracking the gear he was in. And the chemical used to clean him up is industrial. Difficult for a civilian to get. If we can find it, maybe we can find the actual location where he's doing the killings. It'll take time."

Jefferson tilted his head to the side. "Well, I didn't want to stress you out, I just wanted to hear how things were and to tell you to keep up the good work."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all. I mean, you _can_ handle this, can't you, Nick? We're all crossing our fingers for you here."

"It's no problem, Commish."

"Good. _That's _what I like to hear."

* * *

Somehow in between all the drinks at the bars and the stolen coffee breaks in the station, Wolfwood had become a comfortable, familiar part of his routine. No, he didn't necessarily understand him all the time, but that wasn't the point. He got the idea and got the feeling Wolfwood got the idea about him, too. That was enough. 

Sometimes he wondered if Wolfwood would ever tell him more about whatever he had done when he was a kid. Wondered if he would tell him _why _he'd done it. Or why he'd told him at all. He doubted it and maybe it made him squirm a little wondering how any one man could walk around with as many secrets as Wolfwood seemed to have. But then he'd smile that goofy smile, light up a cigarette and tell a really _bad_ joke and none of the secrets mattered much at all. He was just Wolfwood and that was enough.

Wolfwood who tended to babble when he was telling a story. Wolfwood who had his back during a bar fight and tended to cheat if he thought they might lose. Wolfwood who knew the right things to say to snap him out of a funk, who'd go out of his way to do so. Wolfwood who trusted him enough to talk to him about the case he was working on, to let him help sometimes. Wolfwood who let the mask slip every once in awhile to say that, yeah, he was worried about this case and felt pressured to succeed, to catch Leatherman before...before _something_ went wrong. Wolfwood who had told him, "You'll make detective one day if you keep thinking the way you think, rookie" with a hint of pride in his voice. Wolfwood who had made him believe that maybe it was true.

Just Wolfwood.

Enough.

More than enough.

Vash glanced across the bar where Wolfwood was smooth talking a brown-eyed, brown-skinned girl with paper curls sharp enough to cut. He'd just moved in closer and was placing a hand on her shoulder and she didn't seem to mind at all. It was nothing Vash hadn't seen before. Wolfwood could be a smooth talker when he laid on the charm. And how odd that he knew that like he knew so many other things about the man.

Somehow, while he wasn't looking, things had changed. There wasn't a day when he didn't see the detective. They'd meet at Harpers or he'd go with him on interviews or to chase leads. Wolfwood had become a friend. That wasn't the only difference. Even the atmosphere in the station had relaxed. Sometimes people were still too careful with what they said to him, but it was better, especially with Coop back up and moving. He got the feeling that Wolfwood had had more than a little to do with that. Why he'd bothered was just one of the many questions Vash didn't know the answer to when it came to Wolfwood.

Back at the bar, for whatever reason, brown-eyes hadn't taken the bait. She sashayed away and Wolfwood dropped his head. He turned around, caught Vash watching him and shrugged. When he sat down beside him after navigating his way through the jeers of cops and regulars who had all seen the dismissal, he smiled and said, "Well, you can't win them all!"

Vash was already feeling the pleasant buzz of three clicks past tipsy and a mile past watching what he said.

"Detective. Sir—"

"Wolfwood."

_Oh, right,_ Vash thought with the sluggishness that drunkenness gifts to all. "Wolfwood, sir!" he said with a laugh. "That's your third miss tonight. You're losing your touch."

"That I'll _never_ lose. Just ask the ladies lucky enough to have the privilege."

Vash gave him a disbelieving look, one blonde eyebrow poised higher than the other. Wolfwood coughed nervously.

"Well! Let's see! I think I've got a quarter. I want to hear Zeppelin." He started fishing through his slacks and came out with two quarters, which made him whoop happily. "Lucky! What do you want to hear?"

"Um...Xanadu."

Wolfwood glared at him. "The Stones it is!"

"Hey, but I said—"

"Never, ever say anything like that to me again. I'll have you thrown off the force. No, really, I _will_." He gave Vash one last disgusted look and turned towards the jukebox.

"Hey!" Vash said suddenly.

Wolfwood looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"I wanted to say...thanks."

Wolfwood said nothing, only looked at him for a stretched moment. Then his face split into another smile. "Not a problem kid, I like the Stones, too!"

He walked away and didn't come back for much longer than it took to pick a song. By the time "Sympathy for the Devil" finally came on, he had made his way back to Vash. There was a lot they talked about and more that they didn't. The night passed pleasantly, like always.

* * *

It was a familiar question now and one that almost made him wince to hear it. 

"How's Leatherman coming, Nick?"

"It's..." he trailed off. He didn't have anything to say. What could he do with cold crime scenes and a mass of witnesses who were reluctant to talk or down right hostile? What could he do? Take them all in and interrogate them like a bully until they told him _something_ more? Their world was not his world because what they did was not mainstream, not publicized, and potential blackmail material no matter how you looked at it. They were rich. They were scared. They were protective of their own, protective of their secrets. He was feeling...discouraged.

"Hmmm...never mind. Don't stress. I just got a call from the mayor and he was curious. Me too. Well, I can see you're trying your best. Forrester tells me you're running around like a chicken with its head chopped off. Running everyone under you like crazy, too. Yes, you're trying your best. I appreciate that. But, Nick?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Try harder."

* * *

Always Harpers. Always Wolfwood. 

Until one day, he simply wasn't there anymore. Not like he used to be.

It happened from one day to the next. One day he was sitting next to him, laughing and swearing at Harpers. The next, the seat beside his was empty. As it was the next day. And the next. Vash knew that a few months ago he wouldn't have noticed whether the department's star detective was in or not. But now, he couldn't help but notice. Where he was supposed to be, he wasn't and nobody seemed as concerned as he was. "Oh, he's just busy, Saverem," Darby said and Vash _knew_ that, but he also knew that this wasn't just busy. This was...gone.

He was around, that was true, but when he saw him he was distracted. He took several days off in a row and when he came back, he was more distant, more remote. One day he came in with a bruise on his cheek, said he'd had another bar fight. But it hadn't been at Harpers. Couldn't have been. Wolfwood didn't come to Harpers anymore.

He wasn't listening anymore. Vash lost count of the times he heard him say, "Huh? Sorry? What was that?"

Something was eating at him and even if he didn't seem to mind, seemed to prefer it that way, it bothered Vash. Quite a lot.

* * *

It was late. The station was all but empty. He'd gone to Harpers with the rest of the gang but hadn't had the stomach to drink anything. It was a good thing too when he remembered he had forgotten to fax his copies of the newest hacker-related files to the feds. He could get it done tonight and they'd have it by morning and no harm no foul. 

The dark made him feel like he had to move quietly through the station, though there was no need. He worked here for gods' sake, why was he sneaking around? Darkness had that effect on people, he decided. It could even make a saint feel like a sinner.

It took him a little more than ten minutes to get everything sent and another five for the beeps to stop echoing through his mind. He hated fax machines.

He was just about to leave when he heard voices. He followed them through the lines and rows of desks and cubicles. There was light coming from the window in the chief's office door.

He moved towards it silently, ready to act if something wasn't right. He leaned his head around the door and saw the familiar, sharp line of Wolfwood's back facing him. The detective was staring intently at an aged television in the corner. On the screen there was a shaky home video in the too-bright digital colors of the present. It flickered on a summer's scene: young people running through a park on a fine, green day. There were young men and women—dressed like rebels—laughing while they chased each other with water guns and water balloons. Suddenly, the image went even rockier as it was passed from one pair of hands to the other with a lot of nauseating jerks and tugs. The face that came into the view when the camera steadied once again—the man who had been filming—was beautiful. There was no other word to describe him. He had a sharp, clean, too-clever look about him for all that he looked barely old enough to drive. His hair was a shocking shade of blonde though his eyebrows were very dark.

His dress was revealing: a high cut shirt showing off a smooth almost feminine waist and a pair of jeans with more holes than fabric. He cocked one hip to the side and laughed with his too-bright teeth.

"Oh, you skank!" he cried, arms akimbo. "It's MY camera! You can't just take it!"

"Then make me give it back," the voice of the usurper, a man's voice with a lazy drawl, said teasingly. Knowingly. It was the voice of someone who was comfortable in every way with the person they were taunting. Like a lover.

"You know I can," the blonde said back and it was obvious that he was flirting, that it was what he did, who he was. He made to lunge for the camera but was suddenly hit with water balloon. It burst against the side of his head and he cried out before laughing uproariously. He looked even more surreal wet with his hair in his face and streams of water plastering his shirt to his chest.

"Oh, this means war!" he cried and then tackled a chubby girl with ringlet curls who had a pretty good arm since her second balloon hit her target again.

The blonde made a ridiculous battle cry. "Take no survivors!"

He was just so full of life and vibrant that Vash found he couldn't hold back a chuckle. Which, of course, brought Wolfwood's head snapping around, which meant he was caught sneaking around spying on the detective like some stalker. He felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Wolfwood, for his part, looked more than a little surprised to see Vash standing there. He hit pause and the screen froze on the boy, grinning eternally at the joke of the world. Then he turned in the chair completely to face Vash. There was a strange expression on his face, but he had hidden it beneath his trademark grin before Vash could decide what it had been.

"Vash? You're still here? It's late!"

Vash smiled back. "Yeah, no rest for the wicked. Or cops." His eyes darted back to the television. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, research," he said, managing to make it sound like a small thing without convincing Vash at all. "This was Leatherman's...what...third victim?" He ruffled some papers as if he was double-checking, but Vash doubted very seriously that he didn't know every line of the file by heart. Having seen him work up close now, he was well aware that Wolfwood was as meticulous with his casework as he was sarcastic with his friends.

"Oh. What was his name?"

"Robert White. He called himself Poe. This was taken a year before he was killed."

Vash's eyes darted back to the image and then down to the desk. He hadn't noticed it before but there were snapshots of many young, handsome boys on the desk. He recognized one as the boy he had seen that day, the one who had been known as Angel. The picture put a final, sad twist to the story. He had been so vibrant in life, not the battered, ill, addicted thing he and Wolfwood had stood over and analyzed like any other piece of evidence. Were all these boys Leatherman's victims as they had been?

Wolfwood, as if sensing that Vash was disturbed by what he was seeing and hearing, suddenly switched the set off. He ejected the tape, stood, made a show of stretching hugely, and quickly gathered up the pictures on Henry's desk. Then he said he was calling it a night.

They exited the station together, chatting about nothing as if Wolfwood wasn't behaving strangely. As if Vash wasn't worried.

They made it to the parking garage. "Well, I'm that way," Wolfwood said and jabbed his thumb towards his car. "G'night! See you later."

"Wait!" Vash cried out before Wolfwood could finish turning and walking away.

"What's up?"

"It's nothing. Not really. But, are you okay?"

"I'm great," Wolfwood said and turned back to him with a reassuring smile on his face. It didn't work on Vash. "Are you _sure_?" he pressed. "I mean _really_ sure? Because if something's wrong and there's something I can do to help, I want to help. Just ask. Really."

Wolfwood opened his mouth, shut it, and then tried again. "Nah, Vash. I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow."

And then he walked away. Vash watched his back and had the oddest feeling that maybe this was the last time he'd ever see him. He couldn't shake it.

He made it home and finally slept after tossing and turning for two hours, but his dreams were unpleasant, splattered with red, and cold.

To be continued...

* * *

Urk? 

The "Out" "Out where?" "Outside" line isn't mine. It's from "The Family Dog", a brilliant cartoon.

Thanks for reading!

Up Next: The Leatherman Flashback Sequence of Doom comes to an end. I hope. It was only supposed to be three chapters. Honest.


	24. Leatherman, Part IV

Warnings: Adult content, strong language, homosexual themes, non-consensual sex (or at least very dubious consent), violence, BDSM, OOC-ness, angst, weird continuity. Not beta-read. Let's play a drinking game: when you come across a mistake, take a drink. You'll be drunk as a skunk by the 1000th word. Guaranteed.

Author's Note: What you are about to read is what I have begun to refer to as "The MEGA-chapter." It's bloody huge as it is the length of two chapters together. Good thing? Bad thing? You tell me. Either way, think of it as an apology for the delay (and a way to get out of the darned flashback).

The story so far:

Working on the Picasso case in July City, Wolfwood makes a deadly mistake, giving in to his dark desires and indulging in a night of dangerous passion. Vash saves the day, but Wolfwood is in bad shape. He rests fitfully in Vash's apartment and has memories of a time that he had thought buried long ago. Memories of three years ago, before the Picasso case...

May City, the Leatherman is on the prowl, hunting and torturing young men from the BDSM scene. Rookie cop Vash Saverem befriends the young charismatic star of the department, Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood. And while the two grow close very quickly, Wolfwood begins acting strangely the deeper he digs into the Leatherman case. Vash has begun to fear the worst.

The story continues:

* * *

Part XXXVI: Leatherman, Part IV

* * *

Around the city of May, televisions flickered to life; blasted sound as the volume was cranked, told the same twisted story. 

In the courtroom, the jury listened to it all live, the perfect captive audience for actors pretending to represent a system no one believed in anymore. The angry man in the smart suit circled the room like a vulture, big black wings spreading as he worked the law with all the fervor of a hellfire preacher warning of Armageddon. He frightened them and made them fear the world they lived in, a world where such terrible things could happen.

_"When this is over you will see that Bradley Monev is the victim of a corrupt system; that he has been denied the proper mental health care necessary for someone in his condition and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions. What Bradley needs is constant care from professionals who know how to help men with his unique condition. Furthermore, you will see that this investigation has been bungled. It has been handed off from one detective to the next and back again. Evidence has been tampered with. Records have been altered and strings have been pulled. In the course of this trial you will see that Bradley has been used—effectively—as publicity for a department already riddled with—"_

The heels of the woman click-clicked on the marble as she moved confident and sure to stand before them; a tower of a woman, sure and incorruptible and high on her horse, she was unwilling to fall. She spoke to them like they were old friends, in a tone of voice that was as comforting as a mother's caress. She made them feel confident, like they could make the world better, just by thinking the way she thought.

_"The defense will have you believe that Bradley Monev is yet another one of the poor, suffering men of the world who are left with no choice but to kill and rape people to end their pain. They want you to think that bad days and unfortunate circumstances can explain—or even justify—what this man has done. I have to tell you: I have bad days. This morning was no prize. My babysitter was late; my curling iron broke. My pantyhose ripped in the elevator. We all have bad things happen to us. But have you, men and women of the jury, stooped to do what this 'Leatherman' has done simply because things haven't gone your way? The defense will blacken the names of his victims. They will call them 'prostitutes.' They will call them 'druggies' and 'masochists.' The defense will make them seem like animals so that you will think it's acceptable that they were abducted, held against their will, and submitted to all manner of vile treatments at the hands of a man who should be locked away for a very, very__—"_

And sometimes the television watchers and radio listeners heard the words of others, men and women from left, right, and center who made tragedy into news. These hounds of the truth lifted eyebrows at the cameras and slid speculation into the margins and wondered and caused others to wonder.

_"—outside the courthouse where the Leatherman trial has been underway for five days."_

_"—the defense has tried to maintain the insanity plea, claiming that Bradley Monev's other anti-social and rebellious habits support this claim and bolster their insistence that he is in need of special—"_

_"—the media continues to be puzzled as to why the man responsible for Monev's arrest—hero cop Detective Nicholas Wolfwood, will not be taking the stand. Sources from inside the courtroom have also mentioned that the detective's name and involvement in the case have been downplayed significantly. An anonymous source claims that some under the table deals took place to protect Detective Wolfwood and we continue to hear rumors of a sting operation gone sour—"_

_"Monev himself will not be taking the stand."_

_"Larry, can you tell us your overall impression of Bradley Monev's condition?"_

_"Well, Sydney, he is wearing a cast and bandages, wounds apparently received during his arrest. Most of the time, he doesn't seem aware of what's going on around him. He tends to stare off into space."_

_"Have there been any signs of remorse, for instance, when the victim's families testified?"_

_"None that I could see, Syndey."_

"—_that by refusing to allow Monev to take the stand, they weaken their position in regards to his mental stability. Both sides suffer from this questionable—"_

_"—will take the stand. Saverem's testimony is key to both the defense and the prosecution. The defense is hoping that the many holes in his explanation of the events surrounding Monev's arrest will prove that the police mismanaged evidence and have attempted to cover-up embarrassing mistakes made during the investigation. The prosecution conversely hopes to use Saverem's testimony—and the Medal of Bravery he received earlier this year—as support for their—"_

_"—day six. Today, Officer Vash Saverem took the stand. Our sources say that the young hero cop who assisted in the capture of the Leatherman, quote, 'Looked nervous' and 'Uncertain.'"_

_The vulture circled and waited. The young blonde cop watched him wearily before his eyes flickered left to right and then landed on the hulking bailiff who had escorted him._

_"Please state your full name."_

_"Vash Saverem." A bead of sweat trickled down, past the stiff collar of his uniform shirt and down his spine. _

_"Place your right hand on the Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?"_

_Eye shift. Swallow. _

_"...I do."_

_"You may be seated."_

_Mr. Waters, the vulture, faced the jury, but spoke to Vash. Vash hadn't seen enough trials yet to know if this was a common tactic. He asked about his time on the force, if he enjoyed being a policeman, and his opinion of Detective Wolfwood. Those first few questions were deceptively friendly—mundane, even. They didn't remain that way. All too soon, Waters delved into dangerous territory._

_"Officer Saverem," he said, "can you describe for us the events leading up the arrest of Bradley Monev?"_

_

* * *

_

_Three months earlier._

He'd come here for information. Or, not just information. He'd come to kill two birds with one stone. He'd wanted to get smashed because, yeah, he needed that, and he'd wanted to understand. To understand the world the Leatherman stalked. He'd just come to poke around, to see what it was Burke had missed during his investigation. Today, his first time in the place, he hadn't realized that he'd ever come back, especially not for something more.

It seemed like your run-of-the-mill bar. If he didn't already know that at least three of Leatherman's victims had been regular customers, he wouldn't have blinked at it twice. The killer, too, must have known how innocent the place appeared. It hid its sins—and the sins of its patrons—very well. Every guy in here had money or had scraped some together for a night of no rules. The ones with money liked to slum. They were the ones who played it cool, not looking too interested, but keeping a practiced eye open for someone to take them on. These were the bastards who refused to help with the investigation out of fear that their good names and their investment portfolios would take a hit. Men like that liked a taste of danger, but couldn't take the heat if it got too hot. Wolfwood figured you didn't have to be a detective to uncover that.

The guy in the corner had been staring at him for the better part of an hour.

Wolfwood ignored him. Instead, he took the time to look around, gauge the characters and quality of the customers. He watched how they flirted carelessly, clumsily.

Mystery Man in the corner stared for at least another hour before he sent over the drink. He waited until Wolfwood raised it to him in thanks before coming over himself. He was dressed casually, but had in his movements an unrestrained aggression.

Wolfwood studied him as he approached and pinned him as the guy who had been a bully in school. He'd probably punched the first man who had ever dared cause him a hard-on simply by being attractive. He was in the closet bad and used the word "fag" as an insult when he was at work or watching the game with his friends. As for a job, he probably did something labor-intensive where he could blow off steam. At an auto plant or in construction. Wolfwood glanced at the man's hands as he slid into the seat next to him and confirmed his own guess.

"I'm Dan," the bruiser said. "Mind if I sit here?" Wolfwood caught the accent, the soft way he said "Aye" instead of "I", at the same time he caught the slip, the slight pause before the name he gave that signaled discomfort. Even the most experienced liars can't help it sometimes. They lose track of all the bullshit they tell, can't remember which ID they're carrying or what name they used with the last mark. This guy's name wasn't Dan anymore than Wolfwood's was Kermit the Frog, but the truth didn't matter so much around here.

"Make yourself comfortable. Thanks for the drink."

Dan smiled and it was warm and toothy. He'd had dental work—the color of his left canine didn't match perfectly with the surrounding teeth, but it was close. "Not a problem. I saw you come in. All the guys over there have been talkin' about 'cha."

"Really?"

"Really!" he said with a confident laugh. "They tol' me it was a lost cause, said you was one of the 'unapproachables.'"

"Unnapproachables?"

"Well, you _did_ kind of come in here like you own the fuckin' place, lookin' like _that_." He waved a hand at Wolfwood as if to say, "You know how you look, you know what we see."

Wolfwood smirked. He'd just gotten off of work and felt every hour and was sure he looked like it, too. But there was no accounting for taste.

Dan forced a self-depreciating smile and continued, "If I didn't have this buzz, I never woulda come ova' to talk to ya for fear 'a havin' my balls busted. Everybody said they wouldn't even try it, but they dared me to an' I can't turn down a dare."

Wolfwood glanced over his shoulder and saw that a group of five men were staring intently at them and whispering to each other from the sides of their mouths. It was like some gossip session between middle-aged secretaries in the break room. If Vash had been here, he realized, they'd have had a good time making fun of the entire situation. He cursed himself internally. The alcohol wasn't doing its job if he was thinking about that damn rookie. Again. Yeah, Vash, one of the damn reasons he'd wanted to get blind, stinking drunk in the first place.

He finished off the two shots in front of him in a flash as if they might drown thoughts—even the very name—of the kid from his mind.

"Jesus," Dan said in an awed voice. "Are you…are you trying to get completely smashed?"

"Yes," Wolfwood answered. He turned somewhat sluggishly to Dan, squinted at him, and smiled. "You're from Missouri."

Dan's mouth had fell open. "H-how the hell did'ya know that?"

"Your accent," Wolfwood answered.

"No, no, no. I'm from the Midwest, see? We don't even _have_ a fuckin' accent. I read an article about it an' everything."

"To me, you've got an accent."

Dan tilted his head to the side. "Well to _me_ you do."

"Funny hearing that from an out-of-towner," Wolfwood said and then ordered another shot. He tossed this one back slowly and kept the glass resting against his lips, his head tipped back for a second, two. It was long enough for a bead of moisture to slide from the glass, catch at the corner of his lip and then trail down his neck.

Dan followed it hungrily with his eyes. And the look in them said it all: Dan wanted to hurt someone. They invited Wolfwood to be that someone. And Wolfwood was surprised, but not so surprised because the world took all kinds. And so he got toasted with Dan and theytalked about sports and Dan's crappy job in construction (Wolfwood congratulated himself on pegging the job). And after an hour—or was it two? Or even three?—they stumbled to the bathroom together, took a piss side by side, and then Wolfwood said in a slur:

"Well, 'Dan', time to call it a night. I'm having that nice bartender call me a cab." But Dan just laughed too loudly and slapped him on the shoulder. "Nah!" he said. "Stay a little while longer. We can...talk."

Wolfwood patting him consolingly on the arm and saying, "Maybe another time," did not gone over well with Dan. When Wolfwood tried to pass by him to get to the door, he grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip.

"Stay," he said in a voice that rumbled. Wolfwood looked down at the hand on his arm and then back up and Dan confusedly. He was trying to understand what was wrong with him because something about this situation was making his breathing turn shallow and his pulse race. It didn't make any kind of sense because he hadn't wanted anything from the guy before, so why did he feel like he wanted something _now _when Dan was about to live up to his first impression—that of a violent dog merely playing at civilization?

"Let go, buddy."

"No, baby. You stay," he breathed heavily and tried to drag Wolfwood closer.

Wincing through the fog of alcohol before his eyes, Wolfwood smirked and then clocked the guy with a right hook he'd been perfecting since childhood—one he was pretty fond of, too, because Vash had one that was just like it, only with more swing and speed. Unfortunately, Dan didn't have a glass jaw and Wolfwood was plastered. His aim was off (which Vash would have made fun of if he had seen), but Dan's was pretty good and Wolfwood decided he would give him points for that jab after he finished pounding his skull into the floor. Three seconds later and the bathroom was in danger of being destroyed as the two threw each other around and tried for punches that missed more than they connected. But Dan got one more lucky shot in and the next thing Wolfwood knew he was squirming against a wall with a bloody lip while Dan stared down at him like he was going to—

And then he _was_ and the blood tasted salty and Dan tasted like every beer he'd had and Wolfwood knew he must taste like cigarettes.

It was good like that first dirty grope in the back of a car or that silent fuck in a closet somewhere when everyone passing by can hear you.

The grip on his arm tightened and the kiss deepened in time with the pain. Somehow, Dan's thigh ended up wedged between his and pressing up hard. Somehow, he agreed to go where Dan led him. All too soon that seemingly innocent club was revealing its secrets to him, like a stripper slowly spreading her legs under the blare of lights.

A whisper to the bartender, a turn through the hallways.

The room was too bright at first, showing all the metal and leather and straps, but then Dan turned down the lights and the rush of it all came at him with the darkness. Then they began. What Dan lacked in skill and experience, he made up for with force and enthusiasm. There was this unspoken understanding between them that everything that happened would stay as secret as the room where it all happened. He would never see Dan again, but he wouldn't forget him, either.

Even after the bruises faded.

That night became scorched on his mind, hot and breathless. Dan hadn't kissed him again after that first time in the bathroom, but had left his mark in other ways. Ways that Wolfwood felt for over a week later.

Yet, far from feeling that he now understood what those poor dead boys had gotten out of this, and thinking that was enough, Wolfwood came to understand that once was not enough. And yes, he was angry at himself that first night after Dan helped him to his feet and out of the bar, muttering compliments into his ear.

"Damn good, so tight. Want you again..."

He'd be lying had he said he hadn't enjoyed it.

And later, lying awake and aching in bed, he wondered why Dan had wanted him. And that thought led to a darker one: what could he do to make it so that others would, as well. What would he have to become to attract the Leatherman? Because if he couldn't catch him with conventional means, perhaps he could catch him in a sweeter trap.

The tools to finding out what Leatherman targeted were already in his possession because his victims had left their lives behind for him to study. All he had to do was look at them, see them the way Leatherman saw them. All he had to do was _see_ and _become_.

A second later, he shook his head in disgust at the direction his thoughts had turned. How stupid could he be, he wondered. Going out like that and putting his life on the line? Trying to catch Leatherman with a bit of undercover that _no one _could ever get approved? No investigation was worth the danger. No matter how bad he wanted to come out on top, this was too much.

But he went back to that club again.

And again.

And the plan—his decision to become someone else—never died even when he admitted to himself that the investigation was hardly his only motivation anymore.

* * *

Recently, he'd heard a lot of things. He'd heard that Vash had been the arresting officer on a computer crimes case and that he'd proved so invaluable that he had been allowed to work with the feds and was handling it like an old pro. He'd heard the hacker they'd caught red-handed was just a kid and one with a real bad attitude. Heard he fought like a wildcat when they dragged him into the station. Heard he was in interrogation right now wreaking havoc. 

He'd heard that Burke was being allowed to walk around his floor at the hospital.

He'd heard that the men who had survived the hostage situation Vash had salvaged were off the critical list.

He'd heard a lot of things.

But as for seeing it with his own eyes, that he couldn't do. He hadn't been into the station much at all lately. He been...occupied.

He kept his shirts buttoned high. When one of his 'dates' got a little too enthusiastic, he had to explain away a black eye and a limp. And every time something went wrong at work or the chief or the commissioner gave him looks that said 'You aren't trying hard enough' he wanted it again.

The clubs, the pain the thrill.

He didn't understand why. Somehow, it made him feel…better. Nights like these helped him let go, let him hand the reigns to someone else, gave him permission to just be, even if what he was was weak and wanting.

And he was investigating. Of course. That's what this was all about, right?

And sometimes, yeah, sometimes.

Sometimes he confronted himself with the truth: that this was well beyond the call of duty, that this seemed pretty sick and wrong. Sometimes he thought about it with more than the present in mind. Some days, he reached far back in his memories and wanted to burn them out of him. Those were the days that made him feel gnarled and ugly on the inside because they were when he knew that what he was doing more than just _seemed _sick and wrong. Those were the days when the past crowded in with the flash-bright imprints of the moment to tell him that the things he liked—the debilitating pain, the humiliation, the desperation, and weakness—were all things that he had every right to hate. He shouldn't want anyone to do this to him at all and the fact that he did and that one taste was all it had taken to draw his attention to it, it dizzied him and angered him all at once.

The sting across his spine snapped him back to the present, to the glory of the feeling. It was hot. _He_ was hot and numb from one shoulder to the other. He knew his skin blazed bright red where he couldn't see and couldn't reach. Then the pain moved lower and kept traveling. He could hear a keening, pleading sound and knew it was from his own lips, but he couldn't stop it.

"I-I can't wait anymore," the stranger said.

Suddenly, the restraints came free. He was learning, he told himself. He was becoming something else—someone else—for a purpose. For justice. For his future and to eliminate the look of disappointment from the eyes of the people who meant the most to him.

And, yeah, he was lying to himself on more than one level, no matter how good the true mixed in with the false sounded.

Toppling forward, weightless, was thrilling. Maybe the stranger wouldn't catch him; maybe they'd leave him there, battered, useless, and afraid. He shuddered in what might have looked like fear, but wasn't.

Then he was dragged up, forced onto his stomach—

"Open your legs, bitch."

—and it all began again.

* * *

Another night came and went. It hurt to sit down, but he managed. 

He saw Vash briefly, and that had been uncomfortable because Vash had wanted to help him; was maybe the only guy who understood that he needed it. He'd looked so worried, so eager to pay back whatever favor it was he thought he owed Wolfwood. Maybe there'd been more to it than that, but Wolfwood really didn't want to think about that. The bad part had been that he'd wanted to accept the kid's help. There was something about Vash that made him think—whatever. He had almost said 'yes.'

Yes, Vash, help me. Take this away and make it better.

Almost.

He shook the thought away. There was no time for that now, the night called.

Maybe he'd overdone it tonight. He didn't even recognize himself. Turning his face from side to side, the mirror showed him a stranger. Even his laugh and his voice were like stolen artifacts. Artifacts ripped from the arms of the dead if he was honest. Victim one's smile; victim eight's throaty laugh; victim three's bedroom eyes.

He'd become someone else

He knew things now, understood how Leatherman thought, what he was looking for. Catching him was not possible through ordinary means—something that infuriated Wolfwood because Leatherman was sloppy and careless—but perhaps _this_ might work.

He was a living trap, human bait that Leatherman couldn't resist. Now he just needed the killer to show. He kissed the silver cross dangling around his neck and went to greet the night.

Later, when he was kneeling on a floor, bound and captive and bleeding, he would remember how the night had seemed like any other at first.

It hadn't been.

There had been the black.

Black, back pocket left across the dance floor was staring at him. Had been staring at him the whole time. And when he got tired of staring, he moved, came to stand behind him. Wolfwood felt the pull of him and didn't fight it.

"What's your name?" the stranger asked and moved closer. There was barely six inches of space between them and he could feel the heat radiating off the bulky body behind him. "Uh-uh," he answered easily because he knew the rules of the game now, knew how to be someone he wasn't.

"The name's not free. Buy me a drink." He'd perfected the part.

And black, back pocket left chuckled and leaned down so close that his breath showered over his neck. He inhaled deeply. "Turn around and look at me," he ordered. Like a puppet, Wolfwood obeyed and looked up at the giant man invading his personal space and drinking in his body with his eyes. "You're a beautiful toy," the stranger growled, "and I want to break you."

"So buy me a drink."

He did. Wolfwood took a very believable false sip. He needed his wits about him tonight because he had a feeling.

This one in all the black, he was bad news—or what he had told himself he'd been looking for all along.

"Thanks for the drink, handsome."

"Your name. I want to know your name."

Wolfwood had smiled. "Chapel." He twirled the silver cross around his neck and saw how the light and shine drew the big man's eyes almost as much as the skin of his throat and chest that his silky shirt failed to cover.

He tried to handle everything smoothly. A little bit of flirtation, a little bit of a tease to his voice. He watched the man: all the little clues in the his mannerisms, in the way his build and height matched the description from their only witness.

And for the first time, the danger of the game he was playing struck him. The man trying to edge even closer to him was a brick with appendages, he wouldn't drop easily. Wolfwood stood suddenly, made some cute little excuse about powdering his nose—a line he'd stolen from victim number eleven—and he was so over-the-top he'd get a chuckle out of it later, but for now...

He fumbled for his cell phone in the bathroom. All the pressure and anticipation was making his hands unsteady. He finally got a firm grip on it just as he heard the door behind him open. Damn. He let if slip back into his bag, whirled around to find the man moving towards him like a train. Wolfwood opened his mouth to say something clever, something cute and charming, but never got the words out because the man was suddenly right in front of him, in his space and not stopping. He raised his thick arm and made a short thrusting motion.

"Pretty toy," he breathed.

Wolfwood stumbled back and felt the wall embrace him, but knew it was too late to get away. Something sharp and hot ripped through his stomach. He gasped. It wasn't the pain of a knife—he knew what that felt like—it was more the pain of...

"N-needle...?" He looked down and saw the syringe protruding from his stomach and knew for certain the source of the heated chill swirling up inside him.

"I'm sorry, Chapel, but I couldn't let another one get away. You were going to leave me, weren't you? You were going to go away. And now you can't. Now, you're mine."

Everything in front of his eyes became fuzzy and dark, hazy like a black and white photo out of focus. What had he given him? He felt himself slumping forward and the clutch of muscled arms around him.

"I never used to have to do this," the heavy voice whispered in his ear, "but now I have to. If I don't, you'd get away and I'd have to hunt you down. It will wear off soon, and then we can have some fun."

Then he was being dragged, trying his best to struggle free and walk away. The lights of the club made a blend of streaks tangling together into knots. He as going to be sick. He heard the jovial voice of the bartender.

"That one had too much?"

"Yes."

"Can I call you a cab?"

There was a moment's hesitation and then, "Yes."

He tried to move his lips, tried to call out to the bartender that things were not what they seemed, that he was drugged, not drunk, but all that come out was a muttering groan.

He lost consciousness for a moment, and when he came back, he was inside a car—the cab?—leaning heavily against his captor. The big man was talking to the driver, giving directions. And in a moment—the next thing he knew—he was being carried like a sheep over the big man's shoulders. He only had glimpses of black buildings all around him. His stomach felt like it would split and push everything up any minute and his mind was foggy and confused. The click of a lock was the last sound he heard before the slow plod up the stairs began with a regular, _thud, thud, thud_. When those stopped, there was a brief journey down a long hallway when Wolfwood tried again to make his leaden arms and legs move.

He couldn't see the splayed tumble down onto the mattress—he couldn't make his eyes open anymore—but he felt it.

The next thing he knew, a heavy body was pressing down on him and thick fingers were touching him.

"Stop," he mumbled out.

"Are you going to fight me? Are you going to pretend like you don't want this, too? Just like all the others. But don't worry, I will break you. I will."

The weight grew heavier and the fog lifted, bringing nothing but pain that he actually felt. God, he felt it, and he screamed as it took him.

* * *

Vash stared around the station and wondered. Maybe no one else noticed—he doubted that was the case, but there was always a chance—but _he_ noticed and that was enough. Didn't they feel how much quieter and colder the place had become? 

He should have stopped asking because he didn't like the answers he got. He _should_ have. Somehow, he couldn't. It was as if the vain hope that someone might tell him _something _different kept him coming back for more like a starved puppy. He'd always been an optimist and he didn't see it changing anytime soon. It had taken a hit, however, which is why he kept asking. Hope springs eternal and all that jazz.

"Oh, the detective? Didn't he take a few days off?

_No, _he thought, _he DIDN'T_.

"I mean, with Burke coming back, his caseload's gonna get lighter, right?"

Yes, it was true that Burke would be back soon and that he had been thrown a welcome back party where he received ugly ties and more than few gag gifts. It was true that he would be given all his old cases back—including the one that had began to seem far too important to Wolfwood, the Leatherman case. And, yes, it was true that Wolfwood was supposed to have _been_ on vacation ever since the end of the trial that put the Bay Bridge killer behind bars. So of course he'd take that time off now, right (except, he couldn't find anything to prove Wolfwood had taken vacation time at all)?

Of course Vash was overreacting (except for that he knew he wasn't). Of course he was being selfish thinking that maybe he was important enough to Wolfwood to at least earn a 'Goodbye' from the guy before he disappeared (except, maybe he wasn't being selfish so much as honest). He remembered the last time he had seen him, when he'd had the awful feeling that he'd never see him again and wished he had done something to stop him from turning around and leaving, to tell him that he didn't want him to go away.

If only he could believe he was just relaxing on a beach like everyone else, but he just plain didn't. Not at all. Wolfwood was gone and the Leatherman case had too much to do with it.

"We'll be seeing him in a few days," everyone said.

_And if we don't, what about me?_

"He's probably just been busy these past—"

"Three." He squeezed the word out like trying to force poison from his veins.

"Three days? Hmm...that _is_ a long time, but he's been so busy, you know. Well, he _is_ THE detective. I guess you don't catch as many loonies as he has by sitting around eating donuts. He works a hard beat. That's all. He's busy."

He couldn't stop asking.

"Chief Henry, are you busy? Well, no, nothing too serious. That is…no…I mean, _I_ think it's serious. Have you heard from Detective Wolwood? He's investigating. Right. I _know_ that, but...Yes, I know he will as soon as he's finished but isn't it a little strange for him to just disa...Yes, I understand. Thank you. Sorry to bother you, Chief. Of course I can see myself out."

_Damn you,_ Wolfwood, _what about me?_ he thought. Okay, yes, he knew it was selfish and that didn't change what he thought. Things just made less sense without Wolfwood around. He wanted him back and he really didn't care how he managed to do it. He wasn't a detective, that was true. All he had was what Wolfwood had taught him for the few brief months they had known each other (had it really been such a short time?) and instinct. Otherwise, he was still green around the edges, as green as they came. How was he supposed to hunt down a seasoned _detective _who maybe didn't want to be found and who nobody really thought was missing except for him?

Those questions—plus a juvenile hope that maybe he was _here_—brought him to Wolfwood's house during the early evening after his own paperwork was stamped and filed. Wolwood's house was a simple single-story affair. He took care of it most times, but now the grass was too long and it had about it the air of a place that hadn't been visited in quite awhile. The mail was spilling out of the mailbox. Vash wandered over to the flowerpot on the stairs. It was odd to think that the nights he had helped a stumbling-drunk Wolfwood home would come in handy at a time like this. Yet and still, they had: he knew where the spare key was.

And he missed those days when everything had been good. He missed holding him up and walking with him to the door and thinking that things were good like this. He wanted Wolfwood _back_.

Inside the usually tidy house made him press his lips together to keep from screaming or worse. No, Wolfwood hadn't been here in days. He checked the dates of the newspapers piling up on the floor before the door. Days.

The house smelled like Wolfwood: half tobacco, half tangy soap and shaving cream. He moved into the bedroom and tried not to look at anything for too long—half out of respect and half out of self-preservation—moving directly to the desk instead. He sat down quietly in Wolfwood's chair and felt like he shouldn't be there.

Most of the files near at hand were familiar to him. He'd flipped through them once or twice, but now he looked at them with new eyes. Everything Wolfwood knew about this case was here, in between the lines or even staring him right in the face. If he could only look at things the way _he_ had, he could find the answer and follow the trail that would lead him to his friend.

There were gruesome images from the crime scenes, some of them bloody enough to turn Vash's stomach. Other pages contained long lists of suspects interviewed, held, and eventually released while still others were lists of addresses.

A memory slid into focus, just the flash of a scribbled note he had read in these files once. Flipping through them as quickly as he was now was dangerous, he knew, because he might miss something. But having a goal made him less worried than he might have been. If he could find it, that would be something—a certainty, a start.

Finally, he landed on the page from his memory; just a small half-sheet with Wolfwood's unmistakable block print scratched across it. It was a brainstorm of sorts. Wolfwood had been wondering, thinking, questioning: where did a killer kill? His heart sped up as he read over the note.

_The sewers_

_Abandoned building?_

_Access. LIMITED access_

_Building slated for demolition _

_Industrial_

_Factory?_

_Chemicals cleaners used on last victim_

_Employees with access_

Vash clutched the note and focused. He could see how Wolfwood had thought when he had written this. He'd been thinking of places where no one else wanted to go or where no one else _could_ go.

He had underlined the word industrial three times and then circled it. Vash shook his head. It wasn't enough. He was missing a step, but what? This time more carefully, he flipped back through the file until he landed on the list of addresses. There were businesses, clubs, and bars and a few places that didn't fit on the list at all. Most of the locations were unfamiliar to him, but just one of them rang a bell. It was a nightclub and the only reason he knew it was because Wolfwood had mentioned it once. He closed his eyes and tried to remember in what context, but nothing came to mind.

Still, Wolfwood had written these places down for a reason. Maybe he'd even been to them recently.

He scrutinized the addresses. They were a start. He stood, slipping the files under his arm. He thought for a minute about the files on his own desk back at the station, imagined the paperwork and logs that needed to be completed and filed. Could he really afford to slack on his own work to search for Wolfwood, who was maybe working on his tan on some beach somewhere?

The answer, quite simply, was 'yes.'

* * *

How many days like this? Days spent lost in sensations that were too good to be real. In his own little heaven with his own little priest. 

Chapel.

He gathered him up and pulled him close. The body in his arms was limp and sweating but it seemed to curl towards him. That made his heart hurt strangely. He had once had a puppy dog that he had enjoyed holding and petting until the day he had gotten angry and smothered it. He had felt something for that puppy that he was feeling now. That ache that wasn't bad, but that wasn't good either because it scared him.

"Say you'll be part of me," he hissed, but Chapel only groaned in answer.

How many days? How long could it last?

* * *

Wolfwood had been missing for over four days. But he had been _here_, of that Vash was sure. It was just a feeling, but one he was willing to trust. 

Here.

Here in this harsh, unappealing place. He'd been at other bars and clubs, too and Vash had found them and looked and asked and studied. He was exhausted from the chase; running on fumes and bloody-mindedness, but he wouldn't quit. Especially not now that he was putting a picture together. An unpleasant one, but a picture nonetheless.

"Yeah, I know him. He's pretty. Dances pretty, too."

"Maybe I rented a room to him? Him and...hey...you a cop?"

"This one? The head-turner? Yeah, I _know _him."

What, he wondered, had Wolfwood been up to?

Sometimes the bartenders recognized the snapshot of Wolfwood he had stolen from one of the detective's photo albums. Sometimes they even said when they had seen him last. They didn't like to say more. Vash could only hope this one would be less cryptic.

It felt strange to ask questions out of uniform. He felt like he didn't deserve the answers without a badge. But he couldn't be caught doing what he was doing. A rookie, well outside of his jurisdiction? He'd never work again if anyone found out.

"Have you seen this guy?"

"You a cop?"

"Yeah. You seen him?"

"Where's your badge?"

He fished it out of his coat with a resigned sigh. "Officer Saverem. Have you seen him?"

"No."

Vash was so used to the response now that he barely had the energy to confirm with, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He nodded and turned away. He'd been so sure that this time would be different. If he hurried, he could get another club or two in before he crashed. The bartender's voice stopped him after three steps.

"That is, I ain't seen him with _that _color hair," he said.

Vash turned around. And maybe, just maybe, he was thinking, the day was going to be a good one.

* * *

The bartender had called a cab for Wolfwood. Him and a burly guy who matched the description of Leatherman. With the relief that came with knowing that the trail was warmer came the panic of knowing that Leatherman had Wolfwood. And worse was knowing that it seemed as if Wolfwood had wanted it that way. From the trail he had followed from club to club, asking the same questions over and over, he had gotten a fair picture of what Wolfwood had been doing. What he didn't understand was why. Certainly there were other ways to catch a killer. Ways that didn't involve getting involved in a world like this where you obviously didn't belong. Vash cringed as a black leather-clad bruiser who looked like a reject from the Village People passed by him and whistled. Is this what Wolfwood had been subjecting himself too all the times when he wasn't at the station? 

Vash forced the thought—and all others like it—out of his mind. He'd be pissed at Wolfwood after he had him back safe and sound.

The bartender had handed over the number to the cab company he used ('Got a contract with 'em," he'd said) and it had taken a few hours of waiting before Vash could track down the driver. He was a grizzly old guy with a rough voice and a cab that smelled like an ashtray. To Vash, he was like an angel of mercy. He took Vash for a ride.

"Dropped 'em off here," the cabbie said and pulled up to a sad-looking corner. He pointed at the gray and black mass of buildings in the distance. "Couldn't figure out why he wanted here 'cause, man, buddy, there ain't nothin' here."

Vash looked at the landscape before him, one of endless buildings stretching far back, all of them with dark windows. Abandoned. Factories and storage facilities that had closed up when they built the toll bridge and the modern harbor down at the Point. Back when all the tycoons had got smart and moved to where the money was. These buildings were the skeletons of the city.

Vash remembered the notes from Wolfwood's files:

Abandoned. Limited access.

Industrial underlined three times.

The buildings sagged in defeat, relics of an advancing industrial age that had moved further up the river and never returned. Traffic bypassed this entire area now. A bridge connecting the docks to downtown skirted around it, highways led away from it or stretched above it, and side streets slinked past it. All the buildings showed the signs of neglect that had crept in slowly and then attacked in waves. Gray, drab, windowless and derelict—these buildings were ready to fall. The bridge had been the final nail in the coffin four years ago. After that, the last remaining factories had been bought and sold or their home offices had pulled out like the underdog before the game. This was a dead place.

There were so many buildings, clustered together and even a few set off at odd angles, like the area had expanded even when there was no space for expansion. He had...no idea where to start. Going from building to building would take days. Days that maybe Wolfwood didn't have.

Still, he felt oddly relieved.

Wolfwood had been here, had seen this, had known long before him the things he was just discovering. He was close.

He found himself back at Wolfwood's place again, feeling both oddly out of place and at peace at the same time. The smells, the clothing in the closet. Everything was too vivid and real and it deceived him.

He could almost imagine that Wolfwood was sitting beside him—maybe perched on the edge of his bed—elbows on his knees and a bottle of something strong enough to take grease off engines in his hand while a cigarette dangled magically from his lip.

"Ah, Kid," he'd say, "I can see where you're going, but those buildings were abandoned years ago. There's nobody there."

"But wouldn't it be a perfect place to hide someone?" Vash asked the empty room.

"Yeah, I'll give you that. But how does he get in? All those buildings are locked up tight. Have been for years."

Vash suddenly looked up and away from where Wolfwood wasn't sitting and started tearing through the pages on the desk. When he found the page he was looking for, he froze, his eyes skimming down the list furiously.

"You seeing something, Kid?"

"Y-yeah. Maybe. The bodies were all clean, right? Even though he had…t-touched them and maybe hadn't even used a condom." He winced, but pushed past it. "The cleanser, where did he get it?"

"I probably would have had a sample sent down to the lab."

"I know you would have."

He did some more digging through the files and pulled up a complicated looking form. "Not much help. Lots of places used this chemical. But not _too _many, Nick. We could have tracked this chemical down to that part of town. We could have searched every building that fit the bill until we found him if you'd just handed over what you knew! Why didn't you get help? Why didn't you ask _me_ for help?"

"He'd have run if we blared the black and white over there. He'd have gone into hiding so deep he couldn't even find himself. Besides I'm supposed to be good enough to solve these things on my own, kid."

"Ha! You've lost the right to call me 'kid'. You messed up, buddy. We're going to have words once I get you back."

"Whatever you say. Kid."

Vash frowned down at the forms. "Chemicals like that are dangerous. You can't just get access to them without a license or something. And Buildings that house them...they take special keys. You need to take extra precautions to protect what's inside. How did he get in after the buildings were closed and abandoned?"

Wolfwood only looked at him with a smug, expectant look on his face.

"He...worked for the factory? Maybe a foreman or a shift manager? He had access to the building and he made a copy illegally?"

Wolfwood took a long sip. "Now you're thinking. Keep this up and you'll make detective."

Vash stared at the spot on the edge of the bed, wishing that Wolfwood really could be here to tell him when he was on the right track. He gathered everything and flew out of the room like nothing could have stopped him.

* * *

"Tell me the truth. Tell me that you like this." 

The blows came again, harder and faster.

"F-fuck you."

"I can _see_ that you like this and I'm going to make you say it!" he screamed. He didn't understand. What was it with this one? He wanted to have him, as always. He wanted to play with him. He wanted to become beautiful and dirty like him, as always. But he didn't want to kill him to achieve that.

He wanted to break him. And then he wanted to _keep_ him.

"No!" he screamed and realized that no one had spoken. It made him madder because he couldn't understand what was going on. So he threw down the whip and stormed away, leaving Chapel to bleed silently in his leather. In the dirty bathroom between the break room and the broom closet, he leaned against the cracked porcelain sink and let his forehead rest against the mirror. He stayed there for a minute, breathing deeply, thinking about how perfect Chapel was. He was...

Yes, he was everything he had ever wanted. As if someone had made Chapel just for him.

Just for him. And he didn't want to lose that, but he didn't want to _need_ that, either. He was afraid and his heart ached.

* * *

So many phone calls, so many surprise visits to people who had no idea why some young rookie was asking them all sorts of strange questions about keys and chemicals. 

Every last one of them had been worth it. He had an address. And he had a likely suspect, too, someone who had had a copy of a key to the factory where he worked made shortly before it closed forever. A key that had said, "do not copy," but money greased all kinds of palms and the old man at the hardware store said he did it all the time. He had done it for one Bradley Monev, former shift manager. Monev had a criminal record: assault and possession of illegal substances. He was one, giant walking red flag. All things considered, Vash had more to go on than he'd had a few days ago.

Unfortunately, the list of things he didn't have was longer and everything essential was on it. For instance, he didn't have the kind of blind stupidity to grab five units and go on a rescue mission. The more and more he worked on this, the more he came to realize that Wolfwood was in danger, but that things would only get worse if the whole world knew what _kind_ of danger he was in. Wolfwood had done something likely to lose him his badge if anyone found out. Vash would have to do this on his own and pray that he was enough because another thing he didn't have was permission. He was supposed to be on patrol and expected to be on the street for his whole shift.

But he had to get Wolfwood back. Even if it meant breaking the rules. At the moment, he was nowhere near his beat.

The radio buzzed to life.

"Dispatch to Chaser Bravo 7, what is your position?"

Vash stared at the radio and took a deep breath. Then his eyes flashed over the passing road sign to his right. 3rd and Howard. Back to the radio. He lifted it off the cradle.

"Heading west on Booker," he lied. The guilt that should have come never did.

_

* * *

_

_In the courtroom, the jury shifted as if they were being questioned relentlessly instead of the too-young officer in his dress blues._

_"Mr. Saverem, when you reported to dispatch, you told them you were 'heading west on Booker', is that correct?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Booker was inside your patrol?"_

_"Yes."_

_"So you were following orders, staying in your jurisdiction?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I see. I see. So could you tell the jury how it is that you ended up in an abandoned factory on the other side of town, well outside your jurisdiction?"_

_"I received a phone call—on my cell phone—from Detective Wolfwood asking for my help."_

_"And before we delve into the nature of this phone call, do you mind telling us why the Detective—a seasoned, well-respected member of the force—needed help from an officer three months out of academy?"_

_There was a pause where Vash's open, honest face showed the work of the mind behind it, putting the words together like stacking blocks. "I had been assisting Detective Wolfwood on the case."_

_"Detective Wolfwood was working without a partner?"_

_"That's right."_

_"So you just kind of stepped in and decided he needed one?"_

_"It's not like that. I wanted to help."_

_"Outside your jurisdiction because you wanted to help. I see. So back to the phone call. What did the detective say?"_

_"It was a brief call. He told me his location and asked me to join him. He wanted me to look over a building with him."_

_"Did he say why?"_

_"No. It was a very brief call."_

_"Yes, you've said so before. If the jury will please direct their attention to exhibit 32A they will see an enlarged copy of Officer Saverem's cell phone log. 32B is a copy of Detective Wolfwood's. You'll notice that the logs are missing data: both of them are conspicuously blank starting at noon the day before the day in question. And it picks up the following day...at noon. You'll notice that the block of time is listed as 'Unavailable' on both cell phones. When I contacted their holders, they didn't have any more information than this. The officer's service is listed as 'Unavailable' even in their records." He wheeled back to the witness stand. "Officer Saverem, can you tell me how it is that 48 hours of calls—calls that could confirm your story and make this entire line of questioning pointless—how is it that those very pertinent calls went missing?"_

_Vash paused. Then he smiled. "I've got to speak frankly and say: 'Never trust Sprint.' They screwed up my bill, too. I'm thinking of switching to Verizon."_

_The jury snickered and the judge pounded his gavel. "Order."_

_Waters didn't look amused. "Alright, Officer Saverem. Alright. So, please tell the jury what happened that night. Maybe you can fill in the holes left by your phone company. Tell us what happened the night Bradley was arrested."_

* * *

Chapel had been asleep for hours now. He didn't move very much and his chest barely rose and fell with his breaths. He was worried about him. He looked thin. 

So he'd let him rest for a moment. They could play again later. While he waited, he stared at him. That kept him occupied for half an hour, but then he got bored again. He was too afraid that something was really wrong with Chapel, so he didn't dare wake him. He would have to find a way to keep himself entertained. He wandered around the building, aimlessy. He made it to the entranceway and his eyes landed on a pile of clothing in the corner. Chapel's. He had almost forgotten about the soft, teasing fabrics the other man had worn that night. The shirt had red threads that matched perfectly with Chapel's hair. Both felt so good between his fingers. He lifted the bag and jumped when a cell phone fell out of the front pocket. He picked it up and examined it. It was off. He didn't like cell phones very much. They didn't make sense. He sat it aside and then began rummaging through the small bag that Chapel had been carrying that night. He hadn't looked inside it and he knew it was because he wasn't very smart and because he didn't think things through sometimes. If he could be smart like Chapel or even his little Prince had been, he wouldn't make mistakes like that.

He reached deep into the bag and gasped.

"Ch-chapel? This is a gun," he whispered. He picked it up with one finger and frowned at it. "What are you doing with a gun, pretty, pretty?"

Keeping the gun dangling from his finger, he went through the rest of the bag. His eyes widened. "Oh, no, pretty, pretty," he said and flipped the badge open to stare at the picture inside. "You...lied to me."

He tossed everything away from him and the bag and everything else slammed into the wall with a series of thuds. A howl built inside his throat but he fought it down. Chapel had lied to him. He wasn't what he said he was. He was a liar.

He didn't like being lied to.

Chapel had to die because he was a liar. He shook his head at the thought and backed away as if he were trying to escape the person who had thought it because it certainly wasn't him. _He_ didn't want to kill Chapel; he wanted to keep him, to become him.

He wanted to kill him.

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

The world flashed red before his eyes and then a violent, neon yellow. Nothing made sense anymore.

He let go. When he screamed, it echoed through the halls.

* * *

He'd found it. It was empty, abandoned. 

Or it should have been.

Vash crept up towards the building, noticed the little signs that said that this place had been used: the grass was worn by footprints, the entranceway dustless unlike the other buildings nearby. The most telling sign was a flicker of movement by a window, like a man passing in front of it—five, six, seven he counted—floors up.

Vash tried the door. Locked. He moved around to each side of the building, searching for entrances. There were two more, both locked, and nothing more besides a fire escape zigzagging up the north side. The ladder was raised, but he'd planned ahead.

Less than five minutes Wolfwood's old shop ladder was being put to use for what Vash was sure was the first time in years. He was amazed at how quiet it was here. No one was around to see him carrying a ladder through the darkness. The Leatherman—Bradley Monev—had found a perfect spot to do terrible things.

"Wolfwood," he thought to himself, "you could have done this. Why'd you do something stupid like this? You were one step away. You could have found him."

"Kid, ever think that he found _me_ first?" Wolfwood didn't answer.

Vash landed on the fire escape—a backpack slung over his shoulders—and winced as it rang out with a rusty metallic clang. Each step created the same sound and he found himself wishing that the night would swallow them and save him from detection. His first stop would be the seventh floor, but he paused at each window on the way up and peeked inside just to be safe. He also tested the locks. The window on the fourth floor was locked, but the metal on the latch was so rusted that it crumbled in his hand. The window opened easily.

He entered as silently as he could manage and found himself in a wide, dark space that smelled wet and old. He covered his face and moved across the concrete floor. This room was filled with rows of tables, each one bolted to the ground. He could only guess at what had been sorted on these tables or stored beneath them. When he reached the door, he turned left, recalling the plans from the building he had seen during his research. He found the stairs easily and took them cautiously.

Everything was so quiet.

He took the stairs up to the seventh floor and stared down the long, dimly lit hallway for a moment and then proceeded. There were doors on either side of him, lining the hallway, but which one held his friend? He heard a faint whimper and stopped before the door. The handle turned easily. Unlocked.

Inside was dark and smelled too sharp like sweat and blood and worse. He scanned the darkness and found odd shapes hiding among it.

And there was Wolfwood, or the shell of the man who once had been. He only found him by a small stream of moonlight that came through the grimy window, but it was still too much to take in, so he turned his eyes away and swallowed heavily. "Oh, no," he whispered.

Vash knew he had a weakness for drama. The look of someone, what they appeared to be—strong, fierce, gentle—often left an impression on him stronger than who that person really was. He could usually sum up the whole of what he saw in a simple sentence: "He's smart", "She's tired."

Today, he looked across the worn floor, saw the man he had come to respect and could only think the truth:

He's been broken. The leather he was wrapped in made the situation painfully clear. The blood pooling on the floor beneath him made it desperate.

Vash dropped the backpack near the door and rushed to his side, reached out hurriedly, and then pulled back. He couldn't risk startling Wolfwood, making him cry out. Not after making it so far on luck.

"Detective Wolwood?" he tried in a whisper and then, a little louder, "Nick?"

Only a rumbling groan reached his ears in reply.

"Jesus, Nick...what did you do?"

And he didn't want the answer so he wasn't sure why he'd asked because it was obvious now what he had done.

In the dim light, his hair was a deep, dark red. It was amazing how it changed his face, even the air about him. It made him seem wilder somehow, and mysterious. Wolfwood had made himself into another man, a walking target designed to lure a killer. Vash didn't like it.

He didn't like any of what he was seeing nor the knowledge that Wolfwood had been used, beaten, and—he winced at the word that surfaced—for the pleasure of a killer. A killer who might be nearby. He had to shake his terror and work.

He had to call for help. He reached for his cell phone and froze. He reminded himself of what was at stake here. Hadn't he vowed to save Wolfwood from the punishment that would result if anyone knew about this?

"I can't tell anyone what you've done, can I?" he whispered and didn't try to stop the hand that reached up to brush sweat-slick hair off Wolfwood's forehead. He was burning up.

And then a scream like he had never heard before ripped through the air around him. The noise made his heart thunder in his chest as if he had just run a marathon and suddenly he was scrambling to get Wolfwood up and out of here. They were not alone. He had to get him _out _of here!

But the man was lifeless; dangling there like every bone in his body was broken.

"Wolfwood! God, Wolfwood! Nicholas!"

He tried to whisper, but panic made his voice high and loud. It echoed off the dirty walls like a voice in a cave. Vash slipped on the blood and tried to hold the contents of his stomach in. There was just too much blood.

_He tore through the factory that he knew so well, his mind feverish and busy with the noise of thoughts out of order. The weight of the weapon in his hand was strange, but good._

_A cop, a cop. A goddamn cop._

_Kill him._

_Keep him._

Vash's wild eyes darted constantly to the door. Light came from the crack beneath it and he watched it, afraid it might darken.

"You have to get up," he tried again and struggled to rise, tugging at the weak body in his arms. He jumped at what sounded like a floorboard creaking and looked back at the door. But it was nothing. Nothing.

Wolfwood suddenly stirred and leaned forward, resting his head at the junction of Vash's neck and shoulder. He moaned and gave a weak cough. "Hello," he whispered.

Vash jerked at the feel of lips against his neck because this was never the way he'd wanted to feel that. "We've got to get out of here, do you understand?"

Wolfwood leaned in closer. "Nah. Stay."

Vash's heart stopped for a moment, a tiny lifetime. He stared at the cuts and welts on Wolwood's tanned skin, the ones dripping blood rhythmically onto the floor. Then he stared down at the leather wound around his wrists, at the collar around his neck pulled too tightly.

"Nick, you have to get up right now."

He froze then because he had heard them: footsteps.

_It wasn't fair that he had found one that was perfectly everything he wanted and it was a lie because why had he lied and if he couldn't trust him then, why, why, why._

_He rounded a corner, storming and hating._

Vash's heartbeat sped like a bullet train, his eyes widened, and he turned to see what he already knew: the light beneath the door had darkened.

"Get up, get up, get up!" he gasped, his sweating fingers fumbling everything. His heartbeat and Wolfwood's were all he could hear, though his voice echoed around the room. "Please!" he begged.

The door opened, light streamed in.

"Get up!" he shouted and then the door flew open and it just didn't matter anymore.

"You!" a big voice boomed. "Get away from him!" Vash went for his gun, felt his fingers slip. He made a mistake and looked up, should have kept trying for the gun. He heard the _slam, slam_ of feet against the hard floor somehow before he saw the massive body barreling at him.

A train barreled into him. He recalled hours as a child on the trampoline and the crunch of pain whenever he missed and went over the side and hit some fragile party of his body against the hard metal frame. This was a lot like that.

The world tipped sideways and went silent.

* * *

_Mr. Waters crossed his arms and looked at the stand with a speculative, raised brow. _

_"According to the statement you gave to police," he began then paused dramatically to review information he already knew by heart, "when you arrived Detective Wolwood was 'Unconscious on the ground and a 'big man with a weapon' was standing over him."_

_"That's...correct."_

_"What was the weapon you saw?"_

_"A gun."_

_Waters turned to the jury with a flourish. "I'll direct your attention to this object in this bag—exhibit 2A—recovered from the scene."_

_"Is this the weapon you saw?"_

_"I think so. Yes."_

_"You do know that this is Detective Wolfwood's piece, licensed in his name?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good, because then you also must know what that means. No? Well, I'll tell you. What this means is that in the twenty-minute window of time between when you claim to have received a call from the detective and when you arrived, Bradley attacked and disarmed Detective Wolfwood and took his gun, but chose not to flee the scene while the had the chance to. Can you think of a reason for why he remained where he was after attacking an officer? And officer who had probably called for backup?"_

_"No, I can't."_

_"Oh, come on! You're the one with all the answers here. You were there! Do you know why Bradley Monev stood around for what could be as long as 20 minutes when he had a chance to get away?"_

_"...No."_

_"You know what, Officer Saverem? Neither do I. Neither do I."_

* * *

"You, you stay away from him!" the big man said. 

Vash felt his mind scrambling towards the words, latching on to them and using them as a tether to pull him back to consciousness. He rolled weakly onto his stomach and pushed up, taking in the measure of the giant that had thrown him against the wall. He was dressed in black leather pants, but shirtless, showing the fact that he was all muscle. There was something in his hand. His face swam before his eyes. Bradley Monev. Somehow, being right didn't feel good.

Vash shook his head to clear the pain and immediately started towards Wolfwood at a crawl.

"I said stay away!" and there was the click of a gun being cocked. When he looked up, it was to see his attacker standing beside Wolfwood, holding what looked too, too much like the detective's gun.

"Put the gun down," Vash coughed and struggled to his knees. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and his lips felt slick with it.

"No, no, no! I need it because he was trying to trick...No, that's not true! I wasn't going to _use_ it! Not really! I was just going to scare him a little because he lied. But maybe I should...no!"

Vash shook his head. None of this made any sense and Wolfwood was barely breathing over there. The man known as the Leatherman was looking back and forth between his victim on the ground and the intruder. Vash pulled his piece and rose to his feet in one smooth motion.

"It was all an act, wasn't it?" Monev said and his voice trembled. "You lied! _This_ is you!" he shouted and Vash realized that in his other hand he held a badge. The picture inside the leather holder didn't match what was broken and bleeding on the floor now. The knowledge of that sent the killer into a rage, made him throw the badge to the ground and raise the gun. He aimed it at Wolfwood.

"Drop the gun _now_," Vash said. For a minute, it looked as if Monev might comply; he lowered the gun, saying, "I'm so sorry, Chapel. I didn't mean to do that."

Vash took a step closer, but the Leatherman raised his weapon again, this time looking at Vash as he spoke. "Liars deserve to die! He wasn't perfect. No! I'm not going to hurt him! I'm not going to let you take him!" Leatherman screamed. "Can't you see, he wants to stay with me!"

Vash's eyes narrowed. Faced with this again: hurting someone, putting them in danger. But this time, it wasn't a difficult choice at all. The shot was loud, shockingly so even after the screaming. The Leatherman teetered with a strange look of surprise on his wide face. "Y-you..."

"I said drop the gun," Vash hissed.

Leatherman made a shaking attempt to lift the gun but already there was a constant stream of red rushing down his arm. The muscle was in tatters and a small billow of smoke rose from the wound.

The second shot made Leatherman scream. The gun clattered to the ground and he fell to his knees after it. Vash aimed again, higher—smaller target, more centered—felt his finger on the trigger pull back. He'd never been so certain before.

The Leatherman looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes as if he understood too well the look in Vash's.

"I-I'm going to...die?"

"You'll live," Vash answered flatly and lowered the gun. Monev tumbled sideways as if in relief and went silent.

Vash stood still, the gun dangling at his side, and looked around. This...was bad.

He wasn't supposed to be here. And he hadn't fired a warning shot, had he?

_Wolfwood_ wasn't supposed to be here. In deep cover without clearance? Endangering the entire investigation? And this—what had been done to him—it didn't look nearly as...involuntary as Vash wished it was.

If only Wolfwood were a regular cop, not the golden boy with all the answers, this wouldn't be so unsalvageable. As it is, if anyone knew what had happened here, Wolfwood's reputation—his position with the force, with the media, with the commissioner—it was all over.

He spun slowly, letting the world around him rush in. He had to do something and he had to cover his tracks because more than just his job was on the line: everything Wolfwood had worked for was in jeopardy. He had come prepared, but actually seeing the need for that preparation arise was another thing entirely. This looked so bad.

And while he stood there in indecision, Leatherman would eventually bleed to death and then things would be even worse.

"Shit," he said. It felt weird, cursing, but it was the only thing he could think to do.

* * *

_"And how long did you wait to call for backup while the suspect bled to death on the floor?"_

_"I called backup...almost immediately. After I checked for vitals on both men and...secured the area."_

_"One wonders why the Detective didn't call for backup from the beginning..."_

_"Objection, your honor. Officer Saverem can't answer questions about another man's actions. Defense is leading the witness."_

_The judge sighed. "Mr. Waters, Officer Saverem is not on trial and neither is Detective Wolfwood. They are both respected members of the May City—"_

_"I can't make my case with all these restrictions, Your Honor. I'm trying to prove that this investigation was grossly mishandled and—"_

_"You WILL not interrupt me in my courtroom, is that understood?"_

_"Mr. Waters?"_

_"Yes, Your Honor."_

_"Then proceed."_

_Mr. Waters looked cowed, but not beaten. He changed his line of questioning entirely. This one wasn't any less difficult for Vash to answer._

_"The blood on your clothing—exhibit 5C—is Detective Wolfwood's?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Please tell us how it came to be there."_

_"It was..."_

* * *

Vash bit his lip, averted his eyes and then pulled with a final tug that he knew had to hurt. Wolfwood's arms fell limply at his sides. 

"Come on, you can stand now," he said, unconsciously pocketing the straps he had removed.

Wolfwood shook his head. "No. Hurts."

Vash could understand what he meant. He was in pain, too. His bones creaked when he crouched. He got an arm around the other man and lifted, noticed the difference. He wondered when the last time he'd eaten was.

"Here...sit here." He maneuvered until Wolwood was half-sitting, half-falling off the dirty stack of mattresses pushed against the wall. "I'm going to need your help. I have to call for backup, but I can't let them see you like this. Do you think you can get dressed?" he asked, hurrying to the door where he'd dropped the backpack.

"I...I don't know."

When he returned to Wolfwood's side with the bag, it opened to reveal a complete change of clothing along with a few other essentials. "I need you to try for me," he said and fought not to brush his fingers against Wolfwood's grimy cheek.

"n'kay."

They struggled with the clothing all while Leatherman lay unconscious on the floor. Was it from shock? Blood loss? And how long could he last like that?

Vash hurried his motions. And only when Wolwood looked less like a rape victim—he winced at his choice of words because, yeah, some things were obvious here—did he move to his phone.

"This is Officer Saverem," he said. "I need units and ambulances dispatched. My location is..."

He droned on for a moment—telling the dispatcher everything she needed to know—and added with a pained pinch to his voice, "We have an officer down."

* * *

They swarmed the area like locusts. That abandoned place hadn't seen this much activity in years. One of the detectives on the scene found jars in a closet. When asked what they contained he grimaced and said, "Things. Just_...things_." 

Nobody wanted to talk about the room where Wolfwood and Vash had been waiting. The room with the...equipment.

The mayor was taking calls through the night. The commissioner stood outside the DA's office and answered questions. Or, rather, he tried to answer questions and failed. His response for most of the impromptu press conference was, "We're still investigating that and will inform you the minute we have the answers." After it was over, he called Chief Forrester Henry and cursed at him for not having the answers. When Henry hung up, he stormed back into the factory and cursed at his team for not giving him the answers.

"And where the hell is Officer Saverem!"

"He went in the ambulance, Chief."

"He _what?_ He made the call, he should have the decency to stay on the scene! I dunno what we're lookin' at, here. What are we lookin' at, here, Darcy? Do _you _know what we're lookin' at here, Darcy? What _is_ all this?"

"I...I don't know, sir."

"Get Saverem on the horn _now_ and tell him to get his scrawny ass back out here. And find out the name of the EMTs that let him tag along. I'll have their asses tomorrow. Goddammit, he's the only one here who knows what's goin' on and he's walkin' us through this scene tonight and none of you are sleepin' until he does! And get forensics to the basement! Am I the only one workin' here?"

* * *

Vash was panicking and he knew he was doing wrong, but there wasn't a single part of him that cared. He'd planned ahead, knowing what he might find today. Unfortunately, knowing what he might find and actually seeing it were very different things. He hated being right today. 

Wolfwood was on the other side of that door and he couldn't go in to see him. Luckily, he was in a hospital, which meant his cell phone was off. No one could bother him. For the time being, it was all right to stay with Wolfwood. He knew they'd find him eventually—they'd call the hospital and track him down—but until they did, he could stall. There was no need to answer questions immediately. At least, not until he made sure he could answer them the way he needed to answer them. That is, he needed to make the lies he was about to tell seem as true as possible first. He had to ask for a couple of favors.

She hadn't really changed. She still wore the dowdy glasses and kept her hair scruffy. There were lines around her mouth that hadn't been there when he was a kid. But the smiles she used to share with Rem, her best friend until the day she died, were just the same. Mary had worked the emergency room the entirety of her adult life and she was good at it. When Rem, Alex and Vash had moved to May City, Rem had started working here at the hospital where she had met Mary and struck up a fast friendship. Rem's death had hit her hard, but she never lost the kindness she had always showed to Vash.

She squealed when he approached her and lunged to hug him, but halted abruptly when she noticed the blood.

"Vash? It's so good to see you. I haven't seen you since you graduated from academy, but..." she tucked her clipboard under her arm and waved a hand at his uniform. "What happened?"

"I brought in the detective."

Her eyes widened and then her expression went to one of pity. "Oh, Vash, is he a friend of yours? I'm so sorry you had to see that. His condition isn't very good."

"Will he...?"

"Oh, he's stable. Don't worry about that." She consulted the clipboard and began listing off what they had found. "We're just dealing with trauma, a little internal bleeding, a concussion, blood loss, malnutrition and signs that point to him being drugged. It has all the signs of an overdose. We're waiting on the results from the blood work, but you can help us save a lot of time if you know what he was injected with. Any ideas?"

"No. I'm sorry. But I guess I'm relieved. I mean, he's okay. Right?"

She looked surprised, and then very reluctant to speak. Eventually she managed to say, "Vash, you _do_ know the full extent of what's been done to him, don't you? I don't want to have to be the one to tell you this, but that man was tortured and sexually abused. Raped. I'm afraid there's no nice way to say that. There never is."

Vash lowered his head. Knowing something and hearing someone say what you knew aloud were two different thing, too. He looked up, and his expression was determined.

"Are you taking care of him?"

"Yes, why?"

"Are you the _only_ one taking care of him?"

"No, of course not! He needs more care than I can give him all by myself."

"Do you trust the other people in that room with him?"

"Vash, why are you asking me questions like this? I have to get back to work!"

"Please, this is important: do you trust them?"

She frowned then looked resigned. "Yes. Of course. I trust them."

He took a deep breath. "Mary, have I ever asked you for anything?"

There was a long pause, hardly silent with the bustle of the emergency room around them, but poignant nonetheless.

"No, Vash. You never have." She took off her glasses, set down her clipboard and looked at Vash seriously. She knew him very well. Her best friend's adopted son, she had watched him grow into the man he was now and she was proud. He was smart and capable and dependable. He was also a very good actor. If it weren't for that, he'd have spent his days quiet and alone because, no, he wasn't quite like anyone else. Instead, he woke everyday and managed to convince the world that he was happy and carefree. But he was neither of those things on most days no matter how many goofy smiles he plastered on. This time, however, he wasn't acting, the mask was off, and the truth of him showed like a bruise, dark and thoughtful.

"I can promise you I'll never ask you anything ever again if you take that form there,"—he pointed at the clipboard—"and destroy it."

She clutched the clipboard in front of her chest protectively and took a step back. "Vash, are you asking me to lie about what's been done to that man?"

"Yes."

She moved forward and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Oh, baby. Sweetheart. You know I'd do anything for you, but—"

"Then do _this_ for me. "

"But he was—"

"I know. I know." He looked down and then straight into her eyes and the color of them, clear and pure—and the expression—like pain itself, shot through her. "Please," he said.

"Oh, Vash," she whispered. She said nothing else as she ripped the form off the clipboard and crumpled it in her small hand.

* * *

_"I understand that Detective Wolfwood was missing from the station for 'Several days' prior to the arrest?"_

_"He took paid leave."_

_"Yes, the records seem to show that he did. Just like those mysterious phone records we can't make any sense of. Funny things happen to documents connected with you, Officer Saverem. Tell me, there is currently a computer hacker of considerable talents under the protection of the department, isn't there? One Kaite Trevisick who turned State's evidence in exchange for protection?"_

_"There is."_

_"You had a hand in his arrest. Did you had frequent contact with Mr. Trevisick?"_

_"Objection, Your Honor. Permission to approach the bench?"_

_"Granted."_

_The lawyers glared daggers at each other as they neared the judge._

_"Your Honor, evidence from that investigation is not admissible here as it is still underway. Mr. Waters would be wise to drop this line of questioning before he jeopardizes the entire case before it even makes it to trial. This is something like the tenth time he's disregarded the rules and furthermore I fail to see how Trevisick is relevant to this trial at all."_

_"And I fail to see why this trial should be compromised on the behalf of a computer c—" _

_"I thought I warned you not to interrupt me in my court, Mr. Waters. I did, didn't I?" The judge's narrowed eyes were deadly._

_"Yes, Your Honor."_

_There was a long pause and a twitch of the judge's lips. "Objection sustained. New line of questioning, Council."_

* * *

It was his case—okay, it was a federal case, but he was cooperating with them on it—so nobody would think it strange if he came down here. Nobody, he hoped. 

Even if he was just being held until all the details regarding his future with the department could be drawn up and his story confirmed, the hacker named Kaite Trevesick was still a surly, uncooperative kid.

Vash needed his help. The holding cell door opened and Vash stepped inside. The guard behind him gave a respectful nod and disappeared.

"Oh, it's the beanpole who got lucky," Kaite said, glaring at the officer who had arrested him. "I hear Benny's dog took a bite out of your arm."

"Yeah, and that dog's been put to sleep. Humanely. He was a public nuisance."

Kaite glared at him. "I hope you got rabies. What do you want?"

"Help."

And that made him sit up. "Ohhh realllly? Help ain't cheap, Occifer."

Vash rolled his eyes. "I take it that's your way of asking for favors? You're saying this is going to cost?"

"Must be 'cause 'must ain't' don't sound right. You scratch my back, Boy Scout. You know the rest."

"What do you want?"

The kid grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Out of this damn city. I almost got knifed, ya' know."

"That's because you turned snitch and everyone knows."

"Shut up and let me finish or you get nothin'. What I'm sayin' is I want a clean start. You bastards are trying to make me a pet or something, make me do your dirty computer work. Fine, I'll do it. But not _here_. May City ain't my scene, got it? I'll even sign that little statement you got out of me, make it nice and official for the court. You get me shipped out of this damn town and I'll stand on my head and do tricks."

Vash studied the determined look on the punk's face. He didn't have the slightest idea of how he could keep a promise like that. After all the trouble it took to get a minor with a record under the department's thumb and on its payroll in the first place, how much worse would it be to try to move him to a new city? The only person he knew with this kind of sway was in the hospital suffering from the kind of physical injuries that take time to heal and the mental ones that never would. None of that mattered.

"Done." he said. "I'll get you access to whatever computer you need. And I'll get you out of here. Just do a couple of things for me. These two phone numbers, make their call logs disappear. And make it so that _this_," he said, handing over a sheet of paper, "was in the system weeks ago."

Kaite looked at the paper, then back at Vash. "This is serious. This is the kind of thing that got me arrested in the first place."

"Do it."

The boy frowned at him and then looked confused, as if he wasn't sure how hard to push. "I-I want _my_ machine. The one you bastards took as evidence."

"Done."

* * *

_In the courtroom, Mr. Waters looked tired. He leveled a sharp look at the young officer in the stand. He looked so innocent and sincere. Waters knew better. His tracks were covered, his words carefully selected, but he was lying. And dammit, everyone knew it, but it would take a man with more finesse them he had, a man unhindered by red tape, to track it all down. _

_He sighed dramatically._

_"Officer Saverem, before you leave the stand, let me say this: if things were to come to light after the trial, or even after your testimony, the possibility exists that this entire farce will be declared a mistrial. Or if not that, sometime soon or much further down the line this case could be re-opened and we'd have to do this all again. What I'm saying is, if you have anything you want to say, anything at all, please tell us now."_

_There was silence and then the decorated officer looked up and met eyes with the man who had questioned him and attempted to make him slip up and say things he didn't want to say. His eyes said, "I know what you did" and Vash's replied, "Yes, but can you prove it?"_

_He gave one of his convincing little smiles. "No, that's everything I have to say."_

_Waters visibly sagged._

_"No further questions, Your Honor."_

* * *

And days after that—after the medical examiners and shrinks had their say; after the diagrams and to-scale recreations of the factory had been displayed and re-displayed and argued over; after the tearful testimonies of mothers and lovers—it was all over. The woman in the jury box stood and said the words so many wanted to hear. In a courtroom filled with the loved ones of men who would never breathe or laugh or cry again, they were bitter justice served cold and far, far too late. 

_"We the jury find the defendant guilty on twenty-one counts of..."_

The words hung in the courtroom and seemed to echo forward through time. The televisions and radios buzzed with the force of them.

_"—here outside the courthouse where the jury has at last reached a verdict—"_

_"In the stunning conclusion to the trial, many note it was a miracle that the jury came to a verdict at all considering the lack of testimonies from key witnesses and the omission of several pieces of evidence deemed 'too sensitive and vital' to other trials taking place—"_

_"—and Mayor have been unavailable to comment. The arresting officer, hero cop Detective Wolfwood, is also, still, unavailable to answer questions…"_

_"Can you tell us Bradley Monev's reaction to the verdict?"_

_"Well, Sydney, he didn't react at all."_

_"No reaction?"_

_"None."_

_"—failure of the insanity plea, Monev will be returned to Santa Rosa where he was held during the pre-trial hearings."_

The televisions clicked off and the world could focus on other things, brighter things. They could feel safe.

* * *

Wolfwood felt the press of a bed against his back and couldn't tell exactly when he was feeling it. 

Then, or now?

The trial was over. Had been over for years? Had just ended? He was remembering the future and looking forward to the past.

The person standing next to the bed was wrong. There was definitely someone there, but this wasn't right. His vision was double: images shifting from young blonde to old geezer with an emphysema voice and then back again. Time was all mixed up. He remembered snippets of a conversation that he didn't really feel like he was being a part of now that it was repeating itself. It was as if he had spoken without a voice, no imprint of sound left on his mind.

Oh, he remembered now. Chief Forrester Henry was the geezer, and when had he seen him last? Years ago, wasn't it? Or now. Yes, now.

Hey, Chief, he said and the world flashed between an unfamiliar bedroom and a hospital room then back again and again.

Forester took off his hat and sat down beside the bed, looking old and worried.

"Nick..."

How you holding up, old man?

"You're asking _me _that? How are _you_ holding up?"

Me? I'll live. Same as always.

"Damn you, Nick. People go out of their way to take care of you and you go out and do something stupid like this. I don't even know what to say to you."

So they sat in silence for five minutes, Henry steaming and Wolfwood resigned to tolerate it. Finally, the older man pulled himself together.

"Saverem's going to take the test."

_The _test? Wants to join the proud and stupid in the Detective Unit, huh? I'm not surprised. He's smart.

"Yeah, but he won't make it. He doesn't have what it takes to be a detective. Black marks on his record already. Trigger shy. Too soft. Too young. 'sides, after this trial, everybody thinks he's been…less than honest. Hell, even if he passes that exam with flying colors, we're not gonna let him in. May City chews cops like him up and spits them out."

The kid in question changed a damp cloth on his head and tucked a blanket under his chin. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?" His mind protested and told him to pick a timeframe. He tried to answer the kid and wondered why his jaw ached.

Let the kid in, he said to Henry once the past won out again.

Henry's breath caught. "Nick, what are you sayin'?"

I'm saying he earned it. "Can you sit up and drink this?" the kid asked. "Can you hear me?"

A minute's hesitation. "Is this because you...owe him?" Henry asked.

Maybe.

"Nick, even if you ask me I can't just—"

Wolfwood rolled over, the conversation already over in his mind.

Give him a chance, he said. He drifted back forwards and lost both the voices as sleep took him again.

* * *

He recalled sleeping heavily; knew he was sleeping heavily. Remembered coming to for short spans of time and finding Vash there. And he knew he was coming to and that Vash would be there. Always there, reading silently or sleeping soundly in the chair beside the bed. Vash had always been there back then. 

Why should now be any different? He cracked open an eye.

Vash was sleeping in the chair next to him.

But this wasn't then. This was now. Leatherman was in jail and Picasso wasn't. The last thing he remembered, it had been night, but now daylight was shining through the window across the room. He hurt. God he hurt. Every cut, every scrape that had been good last night was nothing but heat and sting today. He'd messed up. He'd gone out, gone to a club and let someone take control of his body again. And just like more than three years ago, Vash had come for him. Maybe he always would.

He studied Vash's sleeping face and couldn't have explained what he was thinking while he did so, but it was a strange mix of loyalty and confusion and obligation and...more. Worse, it had been that way for a long time. Maybe it would always be that way.

Almost as if he could sense when Wolfwood awakened, Vash suddenly sat up and looked immediately to the bed. When he saw the eyes trained on him questioningly, he looked both relieved and nervous at the same time. Then he looked plain startled when the first word out of Wolfwood's mouth was, "Why?" Startled changed to confused a second later. Not because he didn't understand what Wolfwood was asking, but because he understood it too well.

"Good morning," he tried, evasively. He even tried one of his smiles; the kind that lied and said everything was okay. Wolfwood wasn't biting.

"I said why?" he repeated, his weak voice like a gunshot through the air. He didn't know exactly which one of the thousands of whys in his head he was asking about, but assumed it was something like all of them at once.

Why did you come for me?

Why do you always come for me?

Why do you pretend like it doesn't matter?

Why aren't we...?

Yeah, he didn't understand himself, but he knew Vash would because he always did.

Vash looked away and then down. "You know why," he answered.

In the silence that followed, their breathing sounded too loud, too suggestive. Finally, Wolfwood spoke again and, though his voice was as soft as silk across skin, even it sounded loud in the quiet of morning.

"Then why are you sleeping in the chair?"

Vash only stole one glance at him—no hint of surprise at the question showed on his face—before standing. He leaned close to the bed, Wolfwood's face mere inches away. And then their lips were centimeters apart, their breaths mingling. He veered up slowly and the kiss landed safely on Wolfwood's forehead. He stood again, turned, and headed to the door where he paused and said over his shoulder, "You know the answer to that one, too."

He opened the door. "I'll make breakfast. Come to the kitchen when you're ready." Then he closed the door softly behind him.

Wolfwood sat up, his body screaming at him and each wound feeling like it might re-open. "Dammit," he said, but he wasn't sure whom he was damning. Not at all.

* * *

Vash looked at him disbelievingly when he limped into the kitchen, dressed in borrowed clothes as if ready for the day. "Where do you think you're going? You haven't eaten breakfast," he said and pointed to his small kitchen table groaning under the weight of breakfast food. 

"I have to go to work." Wolfwood managed to squeeze the words past the cotton lodged in his throat.

"Don't you know? You requested this day off months ago," Vash said with a cat-that-ate-the-cream voice.

"No I—wait...Kaite." It wasn't a question at all.

"Whatever do you mean?" Vash said feigning ignorance. "Are you accusing me of abusing valuable department resources?"

"Not so much accusing you as...thanking you."

Vash lifted an eyebrow at him and then suddenly smiled so that the corners of his eyes crinkled. And that smile said far more than any common smile ever could. "Well, I'll take that, Nick," Vash answered. "And, you're welcome."

They shared a silent moment, just looking at each other. Neither man turned away for quite some time and Wolfwood knew that they weren't going to talk about last night right now and that it was all right. It really was.

"Eat something," Vash said. "I'm leaving work early today, so I'll be home around four. Okay?"

"Okay," Wolfwood said. Vash gave another smile like the one before and twice was almost too much for Wolfwood. He watched as Vash headed out the door. It closed behind him and he sagged against the counter.

Oh, no.

No, no, no. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face, but it wasn't from the heat. Were they really going to do this? Were they going to take that step and make good on three years worth of built-up...whatever?

He stood, realized his legs couldn't hold him yet, leaned against the counter, and then changed his mind again, deciding to grab his coffee and take a big, steadying swig. Then he leaned back against the counter once more and stared into space. Were they really, really, _really_ going to do this?

Vash had called it 'home', as if Wolfwood belonged here, too. _With_ him.

There had been the smile. There had been the look, the one that said, "You're going to be here when I get back—_home_—and we're finally going to talk about _this_."

Maybe about _everything_.

There had been his slip up this morning, and why the hell had he said that at all?

'Why are you sleeping in the chair?' he had asked, with the nice little subtext of 'Instead of in bed with me?' hidden poorly in between the lines.

Why _had_ he said that? Well, okay, he'd meant it, but that didn't mean it was okay to go around saying everything you meant. Yeah, so he'd woken up and Vash had been there beside him, which tended to make him act like an idiot, he guessed. He glared at himself on the inside. And that made it right to all but invite him into bed with you?

Well, no. But still...

Part of him felt a little giddy: they were really going to start something. That's what everything this morning seemed to indicate: that the time for dodging and stalling and pretending was over. Wasn't it about time they at least talk? Take that first step? Here? He was going to be _here_ when Vash came home, after all. Vash would come through the door and expect him to be there and dammit if he didn't want to be. They were going to talk. And then maybe they'd have dinner and then maybe they'd...

The _rest_ of him was panicking in ways he hadn't known he could panic.

He wasn't ready. There were too many things that could go wrong. By all accounts, he was a headcase, which his little trip through memory lane only confirmed for him. He'd lost what little self-control he'd had left and he'd done it at full blast and in the middle of a case when not only his life, but the life of everyone he cared about, was in danger.

And if he got even closer to Vash, if he told him everything, if he did the things he wanted to...

If he was here when Vash got home...

His cell phone rang.

"Wolfwood," he answered automatically.

"Oh, hello, Detective," a silken, acid voice replied and Wolfwood felt his blood turn to ice.

To be continued...

* * *

The MEGA chapter is finished. I'll go over it for mistakes later, promise. Thanks for waiting two months. Does Wolfwood's cell phone always ring on a cliffhanger, or is that just my imagination? 

Favorite lines of this chapter:

'He'd be pissed at Wolfwood after he had him back safe and sound.' (because it's so macho sounding)

AND

'Then why are you sleeping in the chair?' (because inviting someone to sleep with you should always be so...indirect)

Up Next? Picasso.


	25. The Gauntlet, Part I

Warnings: Angst, violence, sexual situations, adult language, mentions of non-consensual sex and BDSM. If I had a penny for every mistake in this chapter, I'd be soooo rich (in other words, not beta-read). Bad formatting, too, but that's totally my browser's fault.

Author's note: This is the part of the story borrowed from "The Watcher," that _really_ special movie with Keanu. And by borrowed I mean "Completely yoinked." If all the borrowing bothers you, remind yourself that you're reading a supernatural crime AU slash _fanfiction_ and feel okay with the world again.

The story so far:

In the city of July, the man known only as Picasso has been stalking and killing young women, leaving their bodies in twisted configurations for the police to find. Picasso's newfound obsession with the detective in charge of the investigation has caused deadly events to occur. When Wolfwood left town to find answers about the case, his absence prompted Picasso to massacre over a dozen people in a club, forcing Wolfwood back to July. In his absence, Vash began a massive manhunt for their only suspect, a blonde man known only as Ray Hawthorn. Now, Wolfwood is recuperating in Vash's apartment after a forbidden night indulging in his secret passion for pain. And just as things seem to be changing for the better in his relationship with his trusted partner, Wolfwood receives an unexpected phone call.

The story continues.

* * *

Part XXXVII: The Gauntlet

* * *

Late at night, they told stories at the orphanage. This wasn't so long ago, not so removed from the terrible events of that sweltering summer in the city of July: just long enough for people to forget, except for the ones who couldn't. 

The oldest and most famous stories said that, one day years ago, one of the older boys had tired of the abuse and had seen to it that the horrible caretaker and the filthy janitor got what had been coming to them for a long time. The caretaker never raised a hand or a paddle against the children after that day; the janitor never touched them in the ways they hated again. After all, the children whispered from beneath their sheets, the dead had a hard time doing either.

The story went on to say that the boy had surely been responsible though he'd never lifted a finger. He had, quite simply, convinced the two to murder each other. The official report said they had argued about money, but the children whispered that they had never known what they were arguing about, and then the guns had gone off and it hadn't matter much at all.

As for the boy, everyone said that no one would have ever thought to pin the crimes on him. They said he had looked like an angel. Still, all the children—storytellers and audience alike—knew, that though there had been no blood on his hands, there had been plenty on his soul. It just had to be true. It just had to be.

The girls squealed that it was a terrible story and that they didn't believe it (but all secretly hoped it was true because maybe it could happen again). The boys swore they had met the man and invented sweeping tales about his adventures around the world because a kid like that _had _to move on to do great things. But there were boys, too, who said it wasn't true and that they heard the fight really _had_ been about money and that there never had been such a boy here, anyway. They, too, hoped they were wrong.

He was a hero, real or not, to the orphans who came after him. Even to the ones who said they didn't believe a word of it. Even to the ones with no reason to hope such things could happen. The ones who had it even worse than their hero had. The ones who bit the pillow to keep from screaming when _they_ came for them—and they always did. The ones who spent the mornings scrubbing the blood from their sheets and trying to sit and walk in ways that didn't hurt. Yes, he was their hero because he had _done_ something about it. He had made it all stop.

And one day, he came back to help them. Several children got to boast, "I _told_ you he was real," that day. He swept into their lives like a prince in a fairytale, come to slay the dragons. There were many children who, overawed, could only stare because he truly _did_ look like an angel. The rest tried to talk to him, to ask him what he had come to do.

"Patience," he answered. Then he moved through the halls silently and they followed him wide-eyed and mesmerized.

A new story was made that day.

This time, the story said, the angel hadn't done the killing himself. He had helped another boy do that, a boy just as strange and wonderful as he was.

That day, the angel had looked down at the special boy and taken his hand. "I can teach you. I can help you. But first, you have to help me. You want to help me, don't you?"

And the boy had wanted to. So very much. He had looked up with wide eyes and waited for instructions. "Good. Come with me," the angel had said. "We'll end the pain together. We'll make sure they never hurt you again." He knocked on the office door politely and then entered, leading the boy with him.

The door closed heavily. It had been over in short, scream-filled moments.

"I can't stay, but I'll be back," the angel had promised and gone as silently as he'd come.

Later, the cleaning staff whispered about all the blood within earshot of the children who hadn't seen while the police tried their best not to talk about it. None of the children mentioned the angel. None of them knew _a thing_.

"Honestly, Mister. We just found them that way. Honest." They hid their smiles with convincing frowns. "We didn't hear nothing, either."

After the second homicide in only ten years—this one too gruesome to be believed—the orphanage was to be closed and the children sent away. There had never been an investigation, just a small file locked away with all the other hopeless cases. The day before the children were to be moved, the doorbell rang. All the children smiled, grabbed their bags, and hurried down the steps.

"Are you ready?" the angel asked. And of course, they were.

And the old people living in the big, musty houses nearby talked about how strange it was that all the children had disappeared.

"Strange not to hear them crying at night no more," they said. "And they didn't never go with no police, neither. They just up and disappeared. Just plain gone."

But the children were someplace better, someplace where they never had reason to cry at night.

And they surfaced later as the years went by: nameless, clean-slates with a singular mission and a singular goal in fulfilling it. After all, their hero appreciated their gratitude. Their Angel appreciated loyalty. And those former orphan children gave both, tirelessly. For years and years they never wavered. Never questioned what it was they owned him, never looked at any other path.

All but the special boy he had taken under his wing and guided. That boy became a man. And one day, he strayed. For him, unlike the others, something had changed. That former orphan, who had been so loyal to the angel for so long, could not give a reason or an explanation for the change himself. It...bothered him.

Had it been gradual, like a slowly digested idea, or had it struck like lightning; like the lightning that had come with the storm that day?

That day.

The day he had first seen the Detective.

The part of his mind that functioned the way that he imagined other people's functioned tried to convince him that this distraction was a temporary setback. The minute he understood the cause of these new discordant thoughts, the minute he understood what he wanted from the man, he would be cured of him and free to rip him into a million pieces. Not so long ago, he would have done it not just for the pleasure of it—because there was pleasure to be had in taking life—but for the sake of the angel who guided him through life and the world.

Now, for himself alone, he wanted to bring this all to an end. He told himself so everyday even as, somehow, he never did. He _did _want to destroy him. He _did_.

The Detective's body in shreds would be the perfect window to the corruption of the man's soul. Everybody would know then what so very few knew. The Detective's life was one tangled up in lies and sustained on pains and pleasure he denied himself. Taking the man down would be so easy. He had only to strike and he could end all of that imperfection as easily as he had before.

And everyday his arguments were quieted by another voice that said: yes, you can end this, as soon as you find out _why_ you don't want to. As soon as he found out why he was content to watch him. To be near him. To try and break him. Why he was so angry with the idea of him breaking his routine, leaving town, abandoning the game.

Nothing made sense.

But he had yet to pinpoint the cause, as busy as he was coping with the symptoms. He couldn't even really fathom the start of the trouble. Had it all gone pear-shaped when Milly—beautiful, sweet, obedient Milly—had been taken away from him?

Before that?

And how was he to find the answer?

He remembered the letter he kept and treasured and what it said. The letter began, simply, with words that were common, but somehow they felt poignant arranged as they were by the hand of obsession.

_"His name was Chapel and he was beautiful. I owned him for days. And even though I now know what he was, I'll never forget what he is. I want that truth again. I want him back."_

Somehow, Leatherman had fallen under the same spell and seemed to understand the whole of it. The cause, the effect, the madness. He resented Leatherman for that even if he admired him.

But last night had been a revelation for him. Last night, the Detective hadn't been so careful. He'd been reckless enough that following him had been easy. Something had angered him and made him fearless enough to give in. So he'd watched.

Watched the Detective enter the club in a seedy part of town. Stood deep in the shadows where the lights didn't stretch as the music pounded and the bodies writhed around him. Waited for him to disappear with the first stranger that caught his fancy. He followed, he watched. After the screams and the begging through the door and the smell of sweat and blood, he felt no pity for him as he was half dragged to safety by his meddlesome partner. More than anything, he was angry because, once again, the Detective had proven too difficult to predict.

He hadn't gone home like he was supposed to. He'd gone with _him_.

The patterns that were meant to be part of the Detective's life were all twisted and the fact that such behavior usually marked the end of everything—and this time didn't at all—just further upset him. He felt tempted to go back out and make his rage known in another nameless victim. But that hadn't made him feel better the last time. No, he needed answers.

What, _what_ did he want from this man? Why couldn't he kill him?

It became clear to him all at once, like light dawning on the horizon.

He returned to his silent home and found himself with nothing to do but think. Daylight was threatening to shake off the dark and shine through by the time he threw the locks and stood in the center of the room like a lost child.

He ran a bath as hot as he could make it and sank into it up to his neck. He nestled in the water for so long that it was tepid by the time he emerged. He realized what he wanted after the sweat and longing from the club were swirling down the drain—after the sounds and the knowledge of what went on behind closed doors faded from his mind.

What he wanted.

He knew now, and it wasn't what he had feared. He had convinced himself of it. Certainly his behavior the other night with that hooker—that blue-eyed false idol who was only close enough—had alarmed him. But now he was certain that his fears had been unfounded. He didn't want _that_ from the Detective. Of course not.

What he wanted was a whetting stone. Someone to sharpen his mind on. For too long he had been without an adversary he could identify. Detective Marlin had been the last one with a face he knew, with a life he could watch, with a family he could threaten. The detective—_detectives_ as it turned out—who had taken his place had laid low, unknown and mysterious for over a year and a half. That alone had upset things, ruined his system, his routine. Now they stood in the open, revealed. And while neither man was what he seemed, the Detective was the one with secrets that spoke to him. A walking contradiction with eyes like a midnight sky.

What he had seen of Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood felt like a mere, insufficient glimpse and it only made him want to see more. In the bath, he had realized what he was now certain was the problem: he had never seen the man work. With all the others, he had known their lives and their little secrets to the minutest details. Even pretty little Kelly who had studied during the day and danced like a slut at night. He had sometimes returned to the scene when his artwork was still on display for all to see and studied the detectives as they walked around the bodies, stooped to lift clues from the pavement, cursed when they found nothing at all. He knew all their strategies and how to evade them.

That wasn't the case now.

The Detective hid. Not just his techniques, but also his flaws. Even to those that knew them intimately, he still played the good guy, pretended to be something he wasn't. And even when he dropped the act long enough to bathe in pain and be his true self, he always returned to the lie like he refused to let it be broken.

He wanted to know where Chapel began and the Detective ended. And for that to happen, he needed to _see_ him. He needed the world to revolve around just the two of them long enough for him to find the answers.

A plan formed in his mind, as easy as anything ever had. And before the night was over, it was finished. Perfect in its simplicity. The sun had fought its way to a new beginning and everything was ready.

He smiled. The Detective would be so surprised when he heard about what was in store for him. And part of him imagined that he might even be pleased.

Touched.

Grateful.

* * *

It wasn't paranoia. It was self-preservation taking over his senses. The detectives _he_ was so fond of tormenting—they were like bloodhounds. The whole city was a giant trap and everywhere he went he swore people cast suspicious glances at him. There was no light pole, no bulletin board, no post office window without his face plastered to it. He felt hunted, wronged, and betrayed. 

He wasn't sure how things had come to be this way. Things like this didn't happen. Not to him. Him! Someone of his wisdom, his vision and talents cut off from all his supporters. Of those in July, he knew very little of what had become of them. Worse, he couldn't get back to Hale Beach to contact anyone there easily. His home was a crime scene now and he'd never see it again. He knew some of them, like Dominique, had been captured.

And then there was the greatest of them all, the most loyal. The disappointment.

He had turned against him. The very idea of it angered him. Things like this were never meant to happen. What would it take to make a man bred for obedience turn against his instincts like this?

That he couldn't answer. All he could do was hope that, perhaps, there was some loyalty left after all.

He scampered through the shadows made by the sun as it struggled through the sky towards a hot afternoon that was still hours and hours away. Sweat trickled from his blonde hair down his face. The world wasn't even awake yet, but he couldn't sleep. They'd catch him if he tried to sleep. He'd made a run for it on a tank of gas the day they'd come for him. He'd thought he was free to cross the border. He'd been so wrong. Every way out, every possible path to salvation had been blocked, guarded. The tank of gas had run out as he darted from false hope to false hope. And now he was out of options. There was only one place left to go and even that did not come with guarantees.

He saw the dark building—so close, just across the street—and raced to it. He was so close to what he hoped was salvation.

Inside, he stood still, hiding his anger as a pair of strange eyes peeked at him through the crack made by the space between the door and the frame. A heavy chain stretched across the gap, obscuring the view and making the man behind the door seem sinister.

"Your beloved detective has turned this city into a cage," he said after several minutes passed in silence. He wanted to go inside the apartment. The early morning rush to work passed him in the hallway and he was afraid, truly afraid for perhaps the first time in his life. He wondered if these neighbors, so busy with their little lives, knew what lived next door to them.

"You helped me once. The day they came for me, you helped me. But you were planning on leaving me to my fate this time," he said, knowing it wasn't true. _His_ mind didn't work like that. He hadn't _chosen_ to make him suffer; he had simply picked a different course that didn't involve him. Anger made him say the words anyway. "You saved me only to throw me to the wolves. Now you owe me."

The door opened.

He stepped inside, silently relieved and listening greedily for the sound of the many latches and bolts sliding back into place. It is always true that the most dangerous men in the world are also the most paranoid. This place was a fortress built by extreme caution and fear.

He didn't turn to face him yet. He wasn't quite sure of the expression he wore, couldn't trust it not to give everything away. Instead he spoke through clenched teeth with his back to the door. "Abandoning me. The one who made you what you are, who taught you everything."

"You'll damn us both if they saw you come here."

And that made him whirl on his feet. He glared at the other man with wolf-like carnage. "Would you truly leave me to be chased though the city like a dog until I run out of places to hide? I will _not _hang for crimes I did not commit."

He studied the anger on his mentor's face, head tilted to the side. "Ah, but will you hang for crimes committed in your name?"

The answer was a hiss through his teeth and a growl from his throat. "No."

The time that passed as they studied each other was tense and painful, like waiting for a sentence to be announced. And when his protégé strode towards him, he unconsciously tensed because the whole world was out to get him now and maybe this one was no different despite everything they had shared. There was a foot of space between them now and those intense eyes were staring at him curiously. He jumped in surprise when a hand cupped his cheek. It was cold, dry and somehow unnatural, just like its owner. But when it moved over its skin—the thumb tickling along his jaw and neck—it was lovingly done.

His darkly musical voice whispered, "It is true, I do owe you everything. I've always been grateful. And though I may not follow you as I once did, I am nothing if not loyal. I will not let them take you."

He hid his relief with a question. "What will you do?"

"Luckily, your return coincides with a new project of mine."

His cold eyes narrowed. "Something to do with that _cop_?" he spat. "Why is he different? What don't you just kill him and be done with it? Why haven't you forced him off the investigation? What is this obsession?"

His protégé's eyes widened for just a second, but he hid it by looked down, as if studying his feet. "The _Detective _is," was the start of his answer, but then he changed his mind and tried to begin with, "I'm...he," instead. That wasn't what he wanted to say either, so he assembled his thoughts and tried one last time:

"That is...we..."

He gave up and the shake of his head was violent.

"Tell me what it is you want from him," his mentor said and gripped the other man's wrist, yanking it away from his face and holding it tightly until he met his eyes. There was fear in the molten depths. Fear of something he didn't understand himself.

"I..."

"Legato," he demanded, his voice unyielding. He tugged on the wrist and pulled him close until their lips were close and their breaths mingled. "Tell me what you want from this man!" he whispered, almost like a caress. "Tell me."

And the killer named Legato was only being honest when he answered, "Everything."

He lowered his head again and backed away, ending their contact with a finality that almost hurt, as if the distance between them could only widen now. "I have a call to make," he said and turned away.

* * *

Morning was showing off, bright and hot and seemingly endless. Vash was gone. 

Standing at the edge of doubt regarding what to do with him when he got back; covered in new scars that didn't hurt nearly as bad as the old ones had, but still hurt nonetheless, and fearing the worst for the state of this investigation and his job. It had all piled up on him when he wasn't looking. Wolfwood decided that this was one of those bad mornings. The kind that didn't start getting better until they got much, much worse. And then his cell phone rang and things really did get worse and, God, he was tired of being right.

"Wolfwood," he answered automatically.

"Oh, hello, Detective," a silken, acid voice replied and Wolfwood felt his blood turn to ice. This murderer who had turned his life into a circus had the nerve to call him _now_ when he wasn't up to snuff, when he was in too much pain to say the right things and be who he needed to be? It was too much work to act right now.

Last night he'd had a taste of what he hadn't had in years and it made him feel a little reckless despite the pain. Or maybe because of it.

And that was the reason why, quite suddenly, he didn't feel the urge to put the mask back on. Some of that icy fear and panic melted into something else. What it became tapped at his brain like a persistent child. What it became was irritation and Wolfwood was in no condition to suppress it.

"Oh, it's _you_," he groaned and only then wondered if something was wrong with him. Normal people didn't talk to serial killers that way. But then, he wasn't exactly _normal_, was he?

"'Good morning' to you, too," the melodious voice said drolly, taking no offense.

Wolfwood shifted his cell phone against his ear, balancing it between his shoulder and neck, and padded to the bathroom. Vash's bathroom was not clean by Wolfwood's standards, but for Vash it was pretty good today; his usually less-than-tidy partner had even hung up towels. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell.

"Don't get all sulky because I'm not happy to hear from you. You stalked the girl I was dating, trashed my car, and put my partner in the hospital. Am I _supposed_ to be happy to hear from you?"

Picasso didn't answer this. Instead, he said, "Where are you?"

Wolfwood rolled his eyes in the mirror. It was a weird facial expression to make when part of him was still terrified underneath it all. "Safe at home," he lied.

"No, you're not," Picasso replied coldly. His voice was inflexible and cruel, quite like the man himself must be, Wolfwood decided. A flash-bolt memory of the massacre at Club Illusion was a sobering reminder that he really didn't know who he was dealing with here. Lying to this guy wasn't the best idea. He took a step back from the conversation and tried to approach it more carefully.

"Don't worry," he tried. "I understood your little message"—_if you could call a wall decorated in congealed blood looming behind a dismembered corpse a message_, he thought—"I'm not going anywhere. I'm still here in the fine city of July as ordered."

"But _not_ at your house."

Wolfwood answered slowly like tiptoeing past a starving lion. "No, not at my house. Is that a problem?"

Again the line was silent. He filled it up with rambling and wondered if he'd been hanging out with Vash too long. "Come on, now. You said, 'back', you didn't say, 'back where I can see you all the time'." He splashed some water on his face and reached for the nearest hand towel. "Listen, I didn't disappear again. I'm here. I'm just laying low and…licking my wounds, okay?"

Picasso chuckled, a strange sound coming from someone who could rip a man into fourths. "Considering where they are," he hissed, "I find that difficult."

Wolfwood couldn't help his reaction: his spine stiffened, his hackles raised. The full weight of how stupid he had been settled on him unyieldingly. Here this maniac was talking casually about the red lashed marks against his back as if he had seen them firsthand. And perhaps he _had _been there to see him put everything on the line for a thrill. Had Picasso been there? In the club? Somewhere near enough to hear him scream? Near enough to hear him beg?

And it was the stress—or was it the pain? Whatever it was, before he could hold his tongue, the words slipped out: "Maybe I've got someone special to help me with that." And it's not like he knew the minute he said the words that they were a mistake—he had know that _before_ he said them—it's just that he knew _acutely_ the minute he said them that he was playing with his life here.

He stopped breathing and waited through the silence. He imagined that Picasso could hear his heart thundering through the phone Not five minutes before he had been imagining a world where he could come home from work _with_ Vash and now he had to imagine a world where he dared to try it and Picasso found out. _After all_, he thought, _if he killed a dozen people just because I left town, what would he be willing to do if I did something he'd like even less? _

Like start a...like start _something_ with Vash.

"Detective, you don't want to mess with me," was Picasso's delayed response in bitter cold tones. "You really, really don't."

Wolfwood sighed and wondered why he felt the urge to apologize. He was losing it. "Okay, I'll back off." His skin chose the moment to remind him that it was torn to tatters and aching. He bit down on his cheek to keep from screaming and tasted blood. A small bead of it started to trickle from the side of his mouth. He wanted to deal with his pain alone, with a lot of over the counter drugs and some silence.

"And hell if you're not right about that and...Listen," he said too hastily, "I probably need to get back to, you know, trying to arrest you. And stuff. Umm...can I let you go?" he asked politely and the world really was a sick place, he decided.

"Aren't you a little curious about why I called?"

"Don't be pissed, but no." He wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand because Vash had put towels out special and he didn't want to ruin them.

"Well, you should be. You're already on my bad side."

He actually groaned. "Listen, I said 'I'm sorry' about that someone-licking-my-wounds joke, okay? I promise you'll never hear another word from me about...whatever." He winced at himself in the mirror—smeared with blood and covered in scars—feeling more than a little unbalanced. He didn't know what they were talking about. Worse, he had no idea why they were talking about it.

"'Whatever', Detective? Whatever? I told you not to mess with me. I thought I told you the last time we chatted that I know you. I know how you feel."

Suddenly, he was gazing at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and seeing nothing. He found his voice quickly, "What exactly are we talking about here?"

"Where are you?"

That damn question again. Rubbing at his eyes with enough pressure to see spots before them he said, "That's the second time you've asked me that. Do I actually need to answer?"

"No."

"I thought not." And he didn't want to run around the apartment shutting windows and pulling blinds and curtains except he _did_ and damn this bastard for taking everything, even his chance to wake up next to Vash with no regrets. "So, I take it that this is your business now? Where I sleep. Who I sleep with. You gonna flip out about this, too?" Wolfwood snarled.

There was a pause where he could actually hear Picasso sigh. Then the killer continued in that deadly voice: "Maybe you can help me understand something. I can't quite grasp the whole of it enough to taste it. And I _want_ to taste it, Detective; to understand what that felt like: you on your knees, violated, bleeding and desperate with want and hate. And then out of the dark comes this angel and he's there only for _you_, to redeem and forgive _you_.

"Looking up at your savior through the haze of blood and pain and lust, how did you feel? I imagine that the world seemed to revolve around your rescuer; that all the light in the world seemed to surround him. I imagine that it must have been a little like a drink of water when death in the desert seemed imminent. I imagine that it came with a high price—salvation like that for one like you. Yes, the price: you rely on him. Far too much. You're terrified that he'll go away, aren't you? You're terrified someone will _take him_ away from you."

Wolfwood felt drugged and heavy listening to that voice that was layered as if it harmonized with itself. How could this lunatic understand what he had seen? How could he put into words what he had felt then when even he couldn't? When all the darkness and pain and self-loathing for all the things that _weren't_ pain had been suddenly washed away by bright, blinding, _light?_ How could he know so well the relief that had come with seeing Vash there and then the fear that came later? The fear that came with the idea that maybe, just maybe, one day he wouldn't be anymore.

He remembered panicking when he came to in the hospital, once all the drugs had been washed from his system. He remembered the doctors and the nurses holding him down while his stitches threatened to rip because something—someone—was not there. He remembered not calming down again until that someone was summoned. He remembered everything being all right after he appeared at his side just like before: golden and good, and saying, simply, "I'm here. You'll be fine." And he had been after that and every time following, so long as Vash was there.

Now he felt a painful stab in his chest at Picasso's unveiled threat. _You're terrified someone will take him away from you_.

Wolfwood sat down on the edge of the tub when things started to swim before his eyes. The Doc at South had asked him once what he would do if Vash were killed in the line of duty or worse. Wolfwood hadn't been able to answer. And for a shrink, the Doc had only _thought_ he understood the panic that came with just the idea of something like that happening. In truth, that damn doctor had only understood the tip of the iceberg. Losing Vash would destroy him.

"You see, I want to see the cracks in the mask you wear when you play Detective. I want to know which one of you is the real you. I want to know which part you were playing last night. Or was that even an act at all? _He_ already knows all the answers, doesn't he? Maybe I should just ask him. It would be easy. He's not nearly as careful as you are," Picasso continued knowingly. "He's not invulnerable. I've tasted him before. I could do it again. Did you know he takes the same way to work everyday? Every. Day."

"Stay away from him." It took every ounce of his strength to force the words through his gritted teeth. "If you hurt him again I'll—"

"What? Hide him away like you did Milly? I think you and I both know the difficulty in doing that. Milly's a good girl: she goes where you put her and stays when you tell her to. Try that with your partner and see what happens. I doubt he'll go quietly."

"Well then you should listen to your own advice about Vash. He's more careful now. He knows how you think."

"Does he? I thought that was your department."

Wolfwood rubbed his face heavily. "Okay, this is going nowhere. You win: I'll play ball. Let's just...cut the talk about my partner, okay? It's not a good topic. Here, I'll even ask: what _do_ you want?"

The voice laughed. "So I finally have your attention? Good. What I want is very simple. I want what you've denied me for over a year and a half."

And that hadn't been the answer he was expecting at all. "Wait…what?" he said frowning.

"I want to see you, the famous detective, doing your job. Saving the day. Playing hero."

"I...yeah...okay." Wolfwood shook his head and decided that he could win a few points for honesty. "I'll go ahead and say that I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then I'll make it easy for you: didn't you ever wonder how many I watched? Surely you didn't think Milly was the last. There are others. I wonder how far you'd be willing to go to save them."

Wolfwood stood and stayed standing even when colors erupted before his eyes and sweat broke out on his brow. "Who?" he demanded.

"That's the spirit. Why don't you look outside?" Picasso said conversationally.

Wolfwood staggered to the front door—maneuvering around Vash's ugly couch and uglier black cat—swung it open and stared at a perfectly average looking manila envelope resting at his feet. He took a minute to run back inside, grab a couple plastic bags, and cover his hands with them. Then he returned and lifted the envelope slowly.

"Go ahead," Picasso said. "Open it."

And his heart stopped, but only for a second. He refused to look up, refused to even consider that Picasso was probably watching Vash's apartment right then—still?—because…hell no. Instead, he closed the door quickly and steadied himself against it when a wave of dizziness attacked.

It took some maneuvering to get the clasp open with his hands covered in plastic bags and a phone sandwiched between his shoulder and ear, but he managed.

He closed his eyes. "I don't suppose you could just tell me who she is?" he asked, staring at the picture of a pretty young redhead with big brown eyes.

"No. That would defeat the purpose of this little game."

"You think this is a game?"

"No: I know it is. And so do you. You have twelve hours to find her. Use all the little tricks you know. Do your best. Show me how you work. Only one thing: when you find her, no cops. I don't want anybody but you on the scene. It'll just be the three of us. Do this for me, and I'll let her live."

"How do I know she's actually still alive at all?"

"More to the point, how will you ever know if you don't play along? And I'd hate to think of what would happen to your special partner if you defied me. Am I understood?"

"Damn you, yes."

"Excellent. I'm going to enjoy this," he said and actually sounded it. "I want to see you. I want to know everything."

And now Wolfwood managed a chuckle, but it was bitter and tired. "I thought you said you already 'know me'."

"Not nearly enough."

Then he hung up, leaving Wolfwood to stare at the phone and wonder why he even bothered making plans. "Dear Lord," he said, switching his gaze upwards, "give me strength or just kill me now."

* * *

Vash sounded hurried when he answered his cell phone. 

"Hey, what's up? Feeling better?" he asked immediately.

"Yeah. Thanks," Wolfwood answered honestly thanks to a lot of pain relievers. "But forget about that. Can you meet me in my office in a minute?"

There was a pause where he imagined Vash trying to twist the words into a new meaning; one that meant Wolfwood was resting and drinking lots of water. "In a minute?" he said when he failed to find a hidden, benign interpretation. "Where are you?"

And what was it with that question today? "Downstairs. I got a lift from Midvalley."

"You're not supposed to be out of bed."

"Something came up."

Vash didn't bother to hide his frustration. "Yeah I'm sure it did. It always does. And it better be damn good," Vash said and then hung up the phone. Wolfwood winced. A curse word and a hang-up all in the same conversation. From Vash that was the brink of seething anger. Oh, this was looking to be a stellar day, Wolfwood mused. Just stellar.

He moved carefully through the department and managed to avoid the few officers he saw who were prone to slapping people on the back in greeting. Nobody seemed to notice he was wearing borrowed clothing—the slacks too narrow at the waist and not anywhere close to being dark enough for his tastes. He admitted that they looked good on Vash, at any rate. He was only stopped a few times by friendly cops wanting to catch up or by general questions regarding orders, and once by the chatty secretary on duty who wanted to know what he was doing in.

"I didn't notice it in the system before this morning—which is strange because detectives are at the top of the list so I'm sure I would have seen it days and days ago—but I think you're in the computer for a day off and—" she said and started clicking her way through the files.

"I'm pretty sure I am. But there's no rest for the wicked," he interrupted smoothly and winked at her. This got a blush and a smile and had her forgetting to be chatty and curious.

Then it was down the hallway and to his own office. He opened the door and managed not to give up immediately when he saw the look on Vash's face. Ouch, he thought. If looks could kill. Vash was red as if his temperature was up with irritation and the bandages on his forehead stood out boldly against the heat.

He spoke before Wolfwood could. "First of all: are you really okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

"Good. Second of all: nice slacks."

"Thanks."

There was a moment when he neither man spoke and Wolfwood could feel the comfortable understanding from that morning disappearing as the seconds passed. The expression on Vash's face was one of not-so-patient waiting for an explanation. Wolfwood closed the door behind him and jumped right into the groveling stage. "Listen, I know you're pissed at me but there is a valid explanation for this. I just got a call from Picasso."

Vash was silent for five seconds and then said, "Okay, I'm still mad, but I'll give you points for creativity. He called you?"

Wolfwood's nonchalant chuckle even sounded pitiful to his own ears, never mind what Vash heard. "Uh...yeah."

"Is this the first time?"

And damn Vash for being so sharp. "Honestly: no. He called once before but—stop making that face it's not helping any."

Vash threw up his hands. "I'm sorry, I guess I'll never get used to the extent of things you don't tell me. It's a little strange since I'm your partner and all. Why not tell me that you've been planning on running off to take vows and become a priest while you're at it? That might shock me less." Vash got quiet, looked betrayed. Or maybe he just looked like he felt the fool and was getting used to the feeling.

Wolfwood ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "I-I wasn't keeping it from you to be an ass. I was just...you were already pissed at me because of the press conference, okay?" He stopped and sighed when he noticed his voice on the rise. "I just get the feeling that we haven't been seeing eye-to-eye on a lot of things lately. It was dumb of me not to tell you but I promise, from now on, full inclusion. You know everything I know, okay?"

"Does the term 'day late, dollar short' hold any meaning to you?"

"Yes. And ouch."

"Sorry, just being honest here," Vash said and crossed his arms.

"And I appreciate that. I really do. I just wish your honesty hurt a little less."

"I don't think that's my honesty. Taken any pain killers lately?"

"Yes, mother."

"Har, har," Vash deadpanned. "Okay, fill me in. What did the dear boy want?"

Wolfwood settled on the edge of the desk and went over the surreal phone conversation. Vash interrupted rarely, only to clarify or get more details. When Wolfwood was done, he shook his head as if denying the corruption of the world.

"And we thought laying low was a good idea," he said and looked so troubled that Wolfwood couldn't help but wish for simpler times when Vash never looked like that, even when he was pretending everything was alright. "Looks like we just pissed him off. After all the trouble he took to keep detectives off the case—he drove one of those guys insane and poor Frank took early retirement—you'd think he hated investigators. Now it looks like they're a part of the game. He enjoys torturing them as much as he enjoys stalking the girls."

"Yeah. Or, at least he enjoys torturing us," Wolfwood said bitterly.

"You."

"Huh?"

Vash rolled his eyes and it looked like he was getting too used to making the expression. He never used to do that. "He enjoys torturing you," Vash snapped. "Picasso and Monev ought to get together and compare notes."

"Vash—" Wolfwood tried, but Vash held up a hand.

"Later," he said. "Just later." He took a deep breath and switched subjects clumsily. "Well, there's no point standing around doing nothing." He lifted the cradle of the phone, was silent for several seconds and then spoke crisply. "Is Meryl Strife available? Well, will you tell her to come see Vash Saverem with the detective unit as soon as she's back? Thank you." When he hung up he turned back to Wolfwood and said, "The sooner we get PR handling the TV stations, the sooner we get a lead. At least, that's what I hope."

Wolfwood raised an eyebrow at Vash. "I was waiting for the Chief to give the all-clear before bringing in the press."

"Too bad. Bennigan's at City Hall chatting up the Commissioner. He's not around or available to authorize anything. I say we move in and get this taken care of—our way—before he can show up and mess it up. Okay?"

"Fine by me if you're willing to take the fall alongside me."

Vash's shrug was artful. "Not a problem. Streets?"

"We're understaffed. If we pull the guys off the checkpoints and blockades, they can run sweeps. As for the phone lines…half and half?"

Vash pulled a face to show what he thought of that. Then he just looked resigned and disappointed. "You know, I swear we almost had him. Just one more day, maybe. One more day and Blondie would have run out of places to hide. Now he's going to slip through our fingers while we're distracted."

"Which is probably exactly what he—what they—want."

"Still we can't ignore her and leave her out there. She needs our help."

"That is if she's really alive at all," Wolfwood said, injecting a little cold-hard fact into the conversation. He had no reason to take Picasso's word for anything.

But Vash shook his head emphatically. "No, she's alive. That's not how this guy plays and you know it. He's honest. In a weird way," he added when Wolfwood gave him a puzzled expression. "Or...at least he's honest with us. I'm not sure what he tells himself."

Now Wolfwood frowned. "What do you mean?"

The goofy smile was a poor distraction. "Nothing. Never mind." Vash didn't seem to care if Wolfwood believed him or not. He shook his head again, grabbed a file off of Wolfwood's desk and raised an eye to ask for permission to borrow it.

"Go ahead. My convoluted, confusing files are your convoluted, confusing files."

Vash gave him a weak smile and headed for the door. And watching his rigid back, Wolfwood felt something rising in his throat. It wanted to be said and he didn't feel the urge at all to fight it. Picasso was just going to have to kiss his ass.

"Vash!" he shouted after his partner.

"Yeah?" Vash muttered but didn't turn around.

"We never got to have that talk," Wolfwood said when he found his voice. And no, they had never explicitly said that there was going to ever be a talk at all, but he'd known that there was meant to have been one. Vash was supposed to have come home to find him waiting there and they were supposed to have worked something out so that they could both be a little less miserable. Picasso's timing was just brilliant.

There was a noticeable pause before Vash answered, "No, I guess we didn't."

"We're going to." His tone of voice brooked no questions. That psycho could just try to take this away from him.

He could try.

"Yeah?" Vash asked in a voice that even sounded casual.

"Yeah."

Now Vash turned back to look him straight in the eye and some of the softness was back, taking the place of the stress and frustration that Vash was never supposed to show because Wolfwood understood it was there either way. "Where are we going to fit it in?" he asked. "In between the crime scenes and the investigations and the fact that you're being stalked, I think we're a little swamped."

Wolfwood gritted his teeth. "We'll fit it in, dammit." He wanted to cross the room to prove it—creatively—but now wasn't the time for that. All he could do was repeat himself: "We are going to have that talk." Belatedly, he realized what a bully he sounded like and added a little more softly, "Okay? I mean…okay?"

Vash studied him for a pregnant moment longer then shook his head. "Yeah, Nick. That's okay with me," he said, managed a smile and then swept from the room.

* * *

The documents and forms required to get the ball rolling on a new investigation seemed to shuffle through the department like old men. Wolfwood lost track of the hurried orders he handed out, of the hurried meetings he barely made it through. 

By the time Officer Strife called his cell to explain her progress with the news stations, Wolfwood was anxious and pretty certain that he'd had enough coffee for it to come out of his ears. He was on enough pain medication that he felt sluggish and dull and it took all his will not to show it when some plucky officer approached him and tried to impress him with how hard he was working. But handling them was the least of his problems. Technology was out to get him.

Half of the hotline that had been used up until that morning to collect tips on Ray Hawthorn—Blondie, their only suspect in the case—was now supposed to function as a tip hotline to collect any information at all about this girl. At the time of their greatest need was, of course, exactly when the phone lines in the station decided to die. All of them. They had nothing but silence and dead space on every phone in the entire station. Wolfwood wondered how much Picasso had to do with this, but couldn't spare the time to place blame. Fixing the problem was taking too long and the crowded room was even more crowded with electricians in overalls crawling around and blocking the walkways.

He watched them wearily as Strife told him to switch on the nearest TV. Strife was as creepily efficient as ever and still reminded him of a military sergeant in how reserved and professional she was. At the moment, he appreciated it. "Thanks Officer Strife, you're a peach," he said and hung up quickly. He doubted she appreciated the endearment and didn't want to hear the tirade that might result. He dashed to the corner where a beat-up old television hung from the wall on a frame he didn't quite trust and hit the power.

A pretty young reporter with dark, slanting eyes was speaking in a serious voice. He shushed the room at large and cranked the volume. The picture of their mystery girl was up, her red hair looking unrealistically vibrant thanks to the bad color settings on the tube.

"If you have any information on the whereabouts of this girl, or know someone who does, please come forward immediately. Police have reason to believe that her life is in danger."

The number to the hotline flashed onscreen beneath the photo—Wolfwood counted—for five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds total. Then they switched to sports.

He winced and cursed out loud. Ten seconds wasn't long enough to even find a pencil, more or less write the number down. "Get Strife on the goddamn phone!" he barked at the nearest detective.

"But Detective—"

"Use my cell!" he shouted and tossed it at the kid.

He only hoped Vash was having more luck. On the wall of the room next door, every inch of the photo had been blown up to massive proportions. He had a team in there with his partner right now combing it for clues as to who or where she might be while he got the phone system switched over and sifted through the tips they received.

"Detective Wolfwood," a rookie cop said at his elbow. "Would you take at look at this? We've been marking possible sightings from officers on the street. Got this from dispatch. They're all in the same area."

He studied the map with interest. In the distance he could hear Vash in what sounded like a painful conversation with the crew next door.

"Is this a logo? Is it a sign? No, behind her. Then look harder. It looks like…decoration. Like a poster you see in a college dorm or something. I need this part here bigger. And can you make it clearer?"

"Clearer at this size?" a second voice said and whistled. "And any bigger and it could give Godzilla a run for his money in destroying Tokyo, Detective."

There was a pause where Wolfwood was certain Vash had taken a deep, calming breath. It didn't seem to work. "I don't think I asked for your comedy routine, Sergeant. I asked you to enhance this image so we could stop this girl from being murdered. If you think murder is funny, then by all means, make with the funny talk. Do you think murder is funny, Sergeant?"

"...No, Detective."

"No? Good, because neither do I. So now that we both agree, why don't you take this, make it bigger and clearer and save the jokes for someone who appreciates them."

"Yes, sir," was the cowed reply.

Wolfwood heard the hurried footsteps of the sergeant on the retreat followed by his whispered curse, "Dammit." It was pretty obvious that the Sergeant had just revised the opinion he had had of Detective Saverem. Common theory had his partner as a lighthearted joker without a care in the world. And that was true any other day of the week provided there wasn't work to be done. When someone's life wasn't in his hands. Wolfwood gave a mental shrug. Common opinion was very, very wrong and in for a surprise if anybody else tried to get in the way of the investigation by being unprofessional.

He turned his attention back to the map, had the young officer send over a pair of fresh eyes to that neighborhood, and then called over the head electrician. The stained and gruff old guy gave a thumbs up.

"Back on line as ordered," he said.

Wolfwood gave a relieved smile. Just in time. "Okay, where are we at?"

"Urm…the whole board was out, but now we've got them up except for two," he said and pointed at the offending phones. "I've gotta go, but these bums will keep workin' on it. Okay?"

"Good. Great. Thanks. If there's anything wrong...?"

The big electrician jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm leavin' Joey in charge. Wave 'hi' Joey." A skinny guy in overalls behind him looked up from reassembling a telephone handset. "Oi," he said and tipped his hat.

"Anything so much as sounds fuzzy, Joey'll fix it. We all set?"

"Yeah, leave the paperwork up front."

Wolfwood almost jumped when the first telephone rang but then gave a sigh of relief. It was music to his ears. He wanted to stay in the room and listen to every call, but he also needed to canvas the street and meet up with the cops who had leads. He sighed from where he sat atop a desk, reread the checklist he had made with Vash and tried to console himself with the progress they'd made.

Unfortunately, as the head electrician was leaving, someone else was coming and his sense of accomplishment, he knew, would take a direct hit as a result. The thundering of footsteps he knew all too well were like a storm warning. He groaned and braced himself for the screaming that was sure to come.

"Why the hell is my station a fucking circus?" a grizzly voice yelled. "Who authorized this?"

This new silence was strangely louder than the silence from a moment before. Worried eyes darted between the detective and the chief. The odd phone rang and kept ringing because the staff of the hotline was afraid to answer it. Wolfwood decided that his life really was a sick joke. He hid his smile by biting the inside of his cheek and the fact that it was already pretty sore helped sober him almost immediately.

"I did," he said and stood, then turned gracefully to face the man. Pulling that off had hurt like hell.

"You. You." Bennigan took a deep breath that made his wide chest seem wider. "In. My. Office." He paused for the time it took to reign in his temper again. "Now."

Wolfwood nodded calmly and moved to meet him at the door. Before he followed him through it, he turned back to the room. "Answer the phones people. Contact me if you find anything."

The detective with his cell looked confused. "Officer Strife is on the…phone," he said brokenly. "Should I...?"

"Tell her to get back on the phone with that station. Every station. Ten seconds is not long enough."

The Chief made an exasperated noise behind him and he had to bite his cheek again. Defying authority when the Chief wasn't around was one thing, but doing it in front of his face was just plain fun.

In the hall, Vash stepped out to meet them. He took in the scene, then looked back to Wolfwood as if to say, "So now what do we do?"

Wolfwood wanted to laugh at that too because Vash when he was breaking the rules was only slightly less comical than Vash who didn't know what to do once he got caught. "Come on, partner. You reap what you sew." Vash shrugged at that and moved to walk beside him like a man going to his own funeral.

Inside the Chief's messy, cluttered office, Bennigan crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the two detectives. He still looked like his mouth hurt, which it did. Wolfwood felt generous enough to feel a twinge of sympathy for him since he was in the same boat today. It lasted a total of three seconds and then the bastard spoke and ruined it.

"I leave for one hour, two hours tops, and come back to find The Wonder Twins have finally decided to try to take my job."

"Sir, that's not what happened. If you'd let us ex—" Wolfwood tried, but was cut off efficiently by Bennigan's howl of outrage.

"If that's not what happened, then who the hell gave you permission to use PR? I don't remember doing that! Who gave you permission to broadcast at all? To call cops in off the street and ruin the network we had? It sure as hell wasn't me. Since when do detectives make decisions without their chief, huh?"

Vash stepped forward and looked pleadingly at Bennigan. "Chief, the girl is in danger! It's Picasso! We've got less than twelve hours to save her! It was either wait the hour or two 'tops' that you were unavailable in a 'meeting' or go over your head."

Bennigan scratched at his chin and narrowed his eyes at Vash. "Oh, I expect sass like that from _him_, Saverem," he began but then changed track. "Fine, we're wasting what little time you _think_ you bought by disregarding protocol. You want to be Chief, good luck. For now, I'll let you two ride. You catch that freak once and for all, but after this fiasco is over, you both hang for this." He finished that last proclamation with a cruel, bloodthirsty smile.

Wolfwood glared at him so fiercely that Vash came to stand next to him just in case fists started flying again. "Hey, Partner," he whispered, "not worth it, is it?"

"No," Wolfwood said aloud, "not worth _anything_."

Bennigan only continued to smile viciously back at him. "I'm going to enjoy taking your badge, _boy_."

Wolfwood leaned menacingly across the desk and bared his teeth. "And I'm going to enjoy making you eat it after you do, _Chief_."

And somewhere close enough to imagine he could feel the tension radiating off the station, a man with golden eyes ran a hand gently down a television screen in a brightly lit department store as a reporter spoke.

_"The following is a statement issued by the investigator in charge of the case, Detective Wolfwood of the JCPD..."_

He let the name and the words wash over him. "Everything," he said and closed his eyes.

To Be Continued...

* * *

And that's a wrap for this installment. Thanks for reading! Told you this was yoinked from "The Watcher." Bad fanfiction writer. Bad, bad. 

My favorite part of this chapter?

"Considering where they are," he hissed, "I find that difficult."

That was awfully snarky of him.

Up Next: The Gauntlet, Part II


	26. The Gauntlet, Part II

Warnings: Not beta-read and I mean SERIOUSLY not beta-read (not even by yours truly). Adult language and adult situations. Violence. OOC behavior.

The story so far:

During a record-breaking hot summer in the city of July, Detectives Vash Saverem and Nicholas D. Wolfwood are hot on the trail of the serial killer known only as Picasso. In their search, they've deduced that they're looking for more than one culprit. Unfortunately, like the killer Leatherman three years ago, one of their killers has developed an unhealthy obsession with Wolfwood who has secrets of his own. The killer's newest scheme is one devised to protect a mysterious man from his imminent capture by the police—a man who appears to have a strange hold over him. The plan has the extra bonus of allowing him to see how Wolfwood works, what made him a respected detective in the first place. The investigation has put the detectives at loggerheads with the department's chief, a stubborn man named Bennigan. Now, Wolfwood and Vash have less than 12 hours to find a girl Picasso has marked for death. And if Wolfwood refuses to play along, Vash's life is in danger.

The story continues...

* * *

Part XXXVIII:

The Gauntlet, Part II

* * *

You could turn it upside down, look at it backwards, blow it up to extreme sizes and study it all day. No matter what you did, the picture wouldn't tell you anything. 

Young—early twenties.

Redheaded—natural, as far as he could see.

White, female. Wearing a generic polo shirt and with clutter behind her that could have been from a store, a storage room, or even a dirty college dorm. No tips from the processing on the photo itself except for the fact that it had been processed several months ago and had been developed by a shop downtown where none of the employees knew or remembered anything about the guy who'd paid for the roll.

There was nothing obvious here to give them the answer to the big question: who is this girl? But when he looked in her eyes, he saw what he had seen in the photos of Picasso's other victims: a sort of loneliness she had resolved herself to long ago. Maybe she was just those other girls: alone without any solid connections, someone easy to destroy, someone hard for the police to find. Maybe like Milly she'd moved here from far away and left everyone important behind. A perfectionist? A girlfriend to someone who didn't really understand her?

Time ticked away, precious hours fading. The day rushed on. Nothing got any better.

It was going to be a long one.

He wanted a cigarette and didn't have the time to smoke it. Tips came in, some seemed to pan out, most of them were duds. He had to hear them all, anyway.

"Play the call back," he said for the fiftieth time that day. Not for the first time this hour, he wondered how his partner was doing, hoped he was having better luck.

* * *

Vash sighed. He got the feeling the Chief and his partner spent more time arguing lately than actually working together. He feared it was going to endanger the investigation if it went too far. Whatever happened with the investigation, he knew—in a deep, saddened part of him that he didn't want to listen to—that his time with the police in July would soon be over. 

At least, he consoled himself, they were back on the street and the difficult explanations were over. Strangely, revealing to the Chief that the killer—and potentially _killers_—made it a habit of harassing the detectives assigned to the case had only been the second most difficult topic of conversation. By a landslide, telling Bennigan about Wolfwood's connection to the massacre had been the hardest part. Vash winced thinking about all the time they had wasted—over half an hour—barking back and forth at each other when a girl's life was in danger. The conversation terrified the part of him who didn't want to lose his job. The rest of him knew it was too late to save it. Bennigan was not pleased. And with the whole city on alert for Ray Hawthorne—even if their efforts weren't focused on that hunt at the moment—and his arrest an imminent thing once he ran out of places to hide, the truth was that the Chief _wouldn't _need them anymore.

He wanted to do some good before that time came. He wanted to finish the job he'd come to do.

They had been brought out here to July to take care of Picasso. Vash realized he had never thought about the repercussions of what might happen if they failed or if things went sour in the last stretch. And even if they did eventually catch the madmen behind all this, there was no way to call this a perfect ending. Putting it behind him, he focused on the work at hand.

A small team of uniforms—half of who he suspected were there to make sure he didn't get pegged in the head with a bat again—were questioning everyone in the vicinity of a sighting. Wolfwood had never stopped sending extra muscle around with Vash and probably never would. Vash took in the area, trying to get a feel for something. Anything to lead him to the girl.

Office buildings shot up around him like mountains of glass and steel and the uncaring heat of the summer afternoon beat down on the world, oppressive and relentless. Their redhead had been here not three hours ago, but now the place felt cold. The suits and ties that passed by him didn't have the time or inclination to stop and look at a picture of a girl. What did it matter to them if she died? She was just another face in the crowd, another stranger. The thought that people lived their lives without concern for others irritated him, frustrated him.

"Please, _look_ at the picture." He grabbed the arm of a passing suit and whirled him around. "Actually _look _at it."

"Hey, buddy, let go. I know my rights."

"You're about to know police brutality," Vash said through clenched teeth. "Look."

And there most have been something terrible in Vash's expression, something a little wicked, a little vicious, because the guy's eyes bugged out and then drifted to the picture obediently. "Uh, no. I haven't seen her."

"And you're sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure!" There was a remaining tremor of terror in his voice, but he didn't struggle to get away.

"Thank you. Not so hard, was it?" Vash shoved the flier into his hand and then set him away almost gently. "Please take this and show it around. I'd appreciate it."

Vash watched the guy go at a half-run, glancing back over his shoulder as if afraid Vash would pursue. He shook his head and then turned back to his team, all of who were starting at him. "Now _that's _how I want you to do it, okay?"

They all nodded. "Uh, yes Detective."

"Yes, sir."

There were a few scattered nods when the uniforms found they had lost the ability to speak without sounding like idiots.

"Good."

Vash shook his head, but not at the justifiably confused cops. Sometimes, he wasn't quite...himself. Days like this...

"I'm making the rounds. Keep it up and contact me if you get anything," he declared and set off. He fell into an easy stroll that would take him down to where the rest of his team was working and picked up his cell phone and dialed. There were four rings—more than usual—and he felt a tiny glimmer of hope that at least some things were going well. It eased the part of him that felt out of place and cruel.

_"Heya, Vash. How's it hanging?" _Wolfwood answered, voice rough, accented, and a little scratchy over the air.

"Hey, partner," Vash said as he hurried across the street to beat the light. "Knew it was me? I see Kaite didn't let us down." It was amazing that his voice actually sounded like he was smiling.

_"Yeah, Kaite, Joey, and half the IT team." _Wolfwood sounded a little tired, but sharp.

"Joey?"

_"He's an electrician. Nice guy. Helpful."_

Back at South, Wolfwood listened with half an ear to the conversation happening around him. Kaite, dragged upstairs forcefully from his dungeon lair, was attaching headsets to a complicated looking box with a complicated looking screen. Everything was set up on a long, wide table littered with technology and Kaite looked right at home.

"No, no. You can patch into those signals through _these_," the department's pet hacker said and waggled a pair of wires in a poor tech's face. "And don't waste time doing checks on people we already know. What, that number now? That's just his loser partner. Run checks on the bastards we _don't_ know since Detective Wolfwood said that psycho's bound to call again."

On the other end of the line, Vash listened to this and then sighed. _"He called me a loser and implied that I'm a bastard all in one sentence."_

"Only because he cares," Wolfwood said. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and held it up at Kaite's crew like it was the excuse to go that it was. Kaite waved at him vaguely and went back to trying to perfect the trace on his cell. Wolfwood shrugged. It was permission enough.

Outside the station, evening wasn't so young anymore. They had less than seven hours and the girl was nowhere to be found. They didn't even have a name. He lit up, took a long drag and then coughed. He shifted the cell phone against his ear, the better to smoke and talk at the same time. "We got a few more sightings in your area. But they were five blocks east of where you are."

_"I've got a team up that way already. I'm going that way now," _Vash said with shrug in his voice. _"You coming out?"_

Wolfwood squinted at the sun, willing it to stay where it was. "Thinking about it. I don't think there's anything else I can do here."

He meant it in more ways than one.

* * *

Another hour and a half of running around, chasing leads. He found himself in a tiny diner having a quick coffee and a snack with Vash. His partner was a genius and a miracle worker, he decided, when he produced pain relievers and handed them over without reprimand. 

"Thanks," Wolfwood said and downed them.

Through the window by their booth they could see their team questioning the people that passed and stopping cars like the one Ray Hawthorne had been spotted in not so long ago. Between the two of them, Wolfwood and Vash had received six angry, threatening phone calls from Chief Bennigan since they had hit the street and they spent a solid two minutes grumbling about him while Wolfwood waited for the coffee and the drugs to work their magic. Vash picked at a pastry absentmindedly, his attention focuses on the officers outside.

"Where do you think they're hiding out while we run around like idiots?" Wolfwood asked.

"Probably half-way to Mexico by now," Vash said. "It's where I'd be if the whole city had their back turned looking for a girl instead of me. Did the feds call you?"

"No. You?"

"Half an hour ago. Funny thing is, I think this is one Bennigan wouldn't mind losing. If they show up, he'll hand the case to them with a smile and a song and dance routine. He'll probably buy them all dinner."

Wolfwood shrugged and settled back on the seat as the pain started to ebb. "Hell, I'm with him. They can have it. I'm old and tired."

Vash laughed and it was a mocking sound. "You'd fight them tooth and nail for it."

Wolfwood smiled a knowing smile back at him. "Yeah, you're right. This is personal now. Besides, even if they took it, it's not like we'd be off the hook. They'd keep us around for a few days, ask us a million questions about our files and take over my damn office while they were at it. They've done it before. It was before your time, but the feds out in May moved in to the damn station to work on the Brookside murders. Drank up all the coffee, used up every empty conference room. You know what they said to me when they showed up? They said, 'So, we hear you specialize in criminal psychology and catching crazy nuts. Mind if we use your files, your brain, and your office?'"

"Guess it's hard to say no to those FBI spooks."

Wolfwood was about to reply when his cell phone rang. He took the call and when he hung up it was with a sigh. "That was Midvalley. No luck from the hotels in Hale Beach. She's not someone anyone's seen out there before."

Vash didn't look surprised by the news that another possible lead had fallen flat. Instead he said, "Midvalley, eh?"

"Yeah. He's doing a good job."

"You'd think the guy wanted to make detective."

"I think maybe he does."

Vash shook his head. "Everybody thinks they can make the meal better until they get into the kitchen—"

"And then it's just too hot," Wolfwood finished.

They shared a weary smile about that and then Vash pulled out his notepad and flipped through it. "By the way, Milly didn't recognize her either." At Wolfwood's surprise he explained, "I stopped over to see her about an hour ago. She looks good. She says 'hi."

"Thanks," he said softly. He fiddled with his cell for a moment, seemingly to have something to do while he thought about Milly. After a moment, he was composed. "I had Pasina head over to the women's penitentiary. Dominique Kuklos is still being held there while the pre-trial arrangements are taken care of."

"I almost forgot about Santa's Little Helper from that hotel in Hale Beach," Vash said, scribbled a note, sat down the notepad, and then took a big bite of pastry as if he'd suddenly found his appetite. "What gives with her?"

"Pasina says she's still not talking about Ray Hawthorn and that her background check hasn't turned up anything useful. As for our redhead, Kuklos didn't know anything. Or said she didn't know anything. I can't stand cagey women." He sighed and shrugged. "And everything important from Hawthorn's house out in Hale Beach is still in the labs and what they do know hasn't told us anything about the girl."

Vash ticked off the bad points on his fingers. "Okay, so all our possible leads have turned up nothing. We've got multiple anonymous sightings from the same area but no actual witnesses to question. And we've got nothing to connect her to the other victims. We're not doing so hot here."

Wolfwood couldn't answer what wasn't a question or deny what was obviously true, so he just drained the last of his coffee and said nothing. A waitress came by, dolled out refills, smiled blandly and moved on. Wolfwood twirled his mug in his hands while he waited for it to cool.

"Okay," Vash said after the silence stretched. "Maybe we're thinking about this wrong."

"How so?" Wolfwood took a sip of the strong black coffee and hissed through his teeth at the heat and bitterness.

"Got a map?"

Wolfwood dug around in the stack of papers next to him and pulled up a well-used map. He handed it to Vash who opened it, studied it, and then jabbed his finger at it with a curious hum.

"See, all the sightings are in this area. What is she doing down here and why doesn't anybody know her?"

Wolfwood shrugged. "That photo's six months old. Maybe she dyed her hair. Cut her hair. I dunno."

"I don't know either, but maybe it's something to do with her job. Maybe she works at night. A dancer like Kelly was? There are clubs down here. Bars, too."

Wolfwood rubbed his face heavily, lingering on his chin where stubble was forming. "A possibility. You got those pictures?"

Vash produced a stack of enlarged and manipulated variations on the photo Picasso had left outside his door that morning. "It took an arm and a leg to get some of these. Try not to spill coffee on them," he said then talked Wolfwood through what he had managed to piece together. "See that green, rectangular shape in the reflection on her right?"

"Yeah, what is it?" Wolfwood asked, squinting at it.

"We think it's a road sign. But it's just the last little bit of one and it's backwards, blurry and could be just about anywhere. I think it looks like the letters 'E' and 'S'. See? There's nothing special about her shirt, no identifying tattoos or scars that we can see. That poster behind her caught my eye. Nobody's been able to track down who sells it. It's probably particular to where she is, but nobody recognizes it. I thought this was a residence for a hot minute, but now I think it's where she works. Or worked."

The pair hunched over the different versions of the photo for another minute, bouncing ideas back and forth. They looked up startled when a pudgy officer rushed in and stood by their table. "Detectives, I think you'd better come with me. We've got something," she said breathlessly, as if she'd ran the whole way.

Wolfwood and Vash stared at her disbelievingly, then shot up, Vash tossing a ten on the table, and headed out the door on the officer's heels.

* * *

He was fresh-faced and a little spacey. Wolfwood couldn't tell if it was because he was surrounded by armed detectives, or if the surprise of seeing his ex-girlfriend's face on a police flier was to blame. Maybe he was always this way. Lank, dark hair hung around his face, parted in the middle. He was a little too skinny, a little too twitchy, and Wolfwood had his suspicions about his recreational activities, but now wasn't the time to haul someone in for that. Leave it to the narcs. 

David—the ex, had gawked at the flier when the officers working the street showed it to him. Fifteen minutes later and he found himself sitting on the hood of a squad car—flashing the red and blue as cars on the busy street swerved around it—and answering questions about a relationship that had gone sour. "Linda and me, well, we didn't part on good terms. She took her stuff and walked out on me."

Wolfwood noticed how he pointedly didn't mention what it was he had done.

"Did she tell you where she was going?" Vash asked, taking his usual role as the one who asked the questions. Some things never changed. Even with a suspicious bandage on his forehead and worry lines around his mouth, people still liked Vash. Wolfwood stood back a bit, keeping his eyes alternately on the notes Vash wrote and the nervous kid perched on the black and white.

"No. She said she got a new job at a coffee shop. She didn't tell me which one. Sometimes I heard from mutual friends that they'd seen her. Shopping, crossing the street. Stuff like that. She never called me after she left."

"How long ago was this?"

"Oh, man, that must have been," he started and pushed his hair off his face, something Wolfwood noticed he did when he was thinking, "eight months ago. It was still cold. She, um, took my leather coat." He smiled at the memory and then sobered suddenly. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

The way he asked it made Wolfwood wonder if Linda had been into the same things her ex was probably into. He found himself wishing that the shirt David wore wasn't long sleeved.

"She's in danger," Vash admitted reluctantly. "Which is why we need your help. We have a few more questions, if that's okay. Do you know where she lives right now? Family?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Nah, she's never had family. I don't know where she went. She had an apartment close to here before we moved in together. Maybe she went back there? I don't know."

Vash asked a few more questions and with each one David's mood darkened. Once they had as much as they were going to get, they thanked him for his time, gave them their cards, told him to call if he remembered anything helpful, and then let him go.

As he stood to walk away, head down, Vash said softly, "I'm...sorry."

David looked at Vash sincerely, his eyes transparent windows to the pain he was feeling. "Me too," he said.

* * *

Dozens of hasty calls and radioed messages back and forth followed by long, frustrating minutes of no communication at all. At last the station was able to get them a list of every coffee shop in the area. The pulled out the map and the photos again, laid them out on the back of a squad car, and leaned over them with a flashlight as the light of day faded into evening. 

"You said 'E' and 'S', right?"

"E and S," Vash confirmed and ran his finger down the list of coffee shops while Wolfwood scanned the map.

"Theo S. Leekes Avenue?" Wolfwood questioning, indicating a road five minutes south of where they were.

"No coffee shops on that road."

"Gates?"

"Three," Vash sighed, grabbed a passing officer and sent him on his way.

"Forbes?"

"One on the corner of Forbes and Booker."

After a minute of silence from Wolfwood, Vash looked up. "No more possibilities?"

Shaking his head, Wolfwood said, "No. No other streets near the sightings we have end in ES. Feel like taking a short drive to Forbes?"

Vash looked at his watch. "Let's go. I could use a donut, anyway."

Wolfwood rolled his eyes, darted to the driver's side of the squad car before Vash could, switched on the sirens and waited while Vash passed the news on to the sergeant he was leaving in charge. A minute later and they were on their way.

* * *

The minute they walked into the shop, they knew they had the right place. Windows facing both streets, the eggshell color of the walls. It was a small coffee shop, not franchise, and something about the mismatched chairs and cheap lamps spoke of it being a student's hangout. "They haven't changed the poster in six months," Vash said while Wolfwood noticed that all the employees wore generic polo shirts. 

The questions went smoothly and Wolfwood started to feel a strange relief, as if things weren't impossible. A helpful manager produced employee records, gave them an address. She told them Linda Pitt wasn't working today but would be in tomorrow and looked politely concerned.

"She's a good employee," she said. "I hope she's not in any trouble..."

Wolfwood made the necessary calls to get a unit out to her apartment while Vash continued the questioning.

They tore out of the coffee shop at a run. "We can make it to her place in ten minutes if we run all the red lights," Vash said, reminding Wolfwood why he never let him drive. Vash got the passenger door to the car open and climbed in. Wolfwood was about to step off the curb to get in on his side when a small voice stopped him.

"Um..."

He turned and saw one of the coffee shop employees nervously standing on the sidewalk. She was short and mousy with caramel skin and a nose ring. Vash got out of the car again, a curious expression on his face. "Yes?" Wolfwood said.

"It's just," she said and looked back through the shop windows nervously. "See, Linda has another job, only the manager don't know about it. Nobody does. It's not such a good place."

"What does she do?" Vash was as polite as he always was, but he sounded anxious, as if he could sense that they were finally onto something.

Biting her lip, she answered, "She's a bartender at a club. It pays better. Overtime in the evening is better than working here." She gave another worried glance through the window. "She called off here to go work there. She does it all the time when money gets tight. She won't be at home."

Vash took a step closer to her. "Do you know where this club is?"

"Yes," she whispered.

* * *

The radio became their lifeline in the next crucial hour. Messages about location and distribution of their forces crammed the airwaves. Wolfwood took a unit to Linda's apartment and left a team there to investigate. As her co-worker had predicted, she wasn't there, but that didn't mean there weren't clues to be found. If Picasso had watched her there was a chance that she, like many of the other victims, had noticed it. He only hoped it wasn't too late for her like it had been for them. 

"Read her diary, check her computer. I want to know where she went, who she talked to, who called."

His team set to work efficiently and Wolfwood wanted to stay to supervise, but other things called for his attention.

Then it was a rushed journey back to the station to take care of the ugly details there, while Vash arranged roadblocks, scouted the area near the club, and continued to hope that someone might get word to the girl that someone was looking for her. If they could get her to come to them, they wouldn't have to walk into something that no amount of careful planning could prepare them for.

A half-an-hour later and they regrouped. Vash had already moved his team to the street that ran in front of the club and brought several units to secure the area. Wolfwood parked behind the black and white Vash had borrowed when they separated after the coffee shop, hoped out and felt the urge to smile.

Vash looked—he searched for the right word and found 'good' was the only one that worked—in full gear. It had been a long time since he'd seen Vash in anything resembling a uniform. Something that was pretty much a toned-down version of the Riot Squad gear was on the list of things he'd _never_ seen Vash in. He looked tall and competent in the blue and black and it gave him an air of authority he didn't usually try for when in his detective white shirts and ties. His hip holster hung a little too low for regulation and his vest wasn't completely fastened at the sides—as if he'd run out of time to finish the job—but everything else was neatly in place. All around, his team—suited-up the same way—hurried like mice, or mulled and whispered to each other, looking focused. An endless stream of officers seemed to run back and forth, consulting with Vash only to dart away a minute later.

Across the street, a crowd was gathering. Wolfwood didn't like spectators and knew Vash wasn't fond of them either. Today was definitely not the day these guys needed to take an interest in police activities. Vash looked like he had his hands full.

"Bradbury!" Wolfwood called to the nearest sergeant. The skinny guy hurried over, listened carefully, and then didn't waste any time in gathering other officers to handle crowd control. Wolfwood wondered why it was that officers who worked with Vash all day seemed a little friendlier than the ones he got stuck with. All his guys were tense and suspicious. He was sure there was a connection there somewhere, but didn't have the time to figure it out now.

Crowd control underway, he jogged up to his partner. The night was cooler than he'd thought it would be and he was glad for the jacket he wore. The weather in the city of July defied classification. Not for the first time, he missed May where things had made just a little more sense.

"You look like an episode of 'S.W.A.T'," Wolfwood said and gave Vash a playful punch on the arm.

Vash dusted imaginary lint off his arm where the punch had landed. "And you look like you could use a coffee. Did you know this getup is standard for anything termed a 'hostage situation' in this town?"

Wolfwood looked down at the uniform again. He took a long, considering puff on his cigarette. "No. That's something special, isn't it? In May they gave you a radio and a door to hide behind and told you 'Good luck.'"

"Exactly!" Vash sounded relieved, as if he was glad to have somebody around who got the idea. "Isn't this overkill?"

Wolfwood's eyes narrowed for a second. "No."

"Hmm...well then good, 'cause yours is over there."

Wolfwood held up his hands when a uniform drifted close with a folded bundle of clothes and armor. "I ain't putting that thing on." The uniform gave Vash a questioning expression and then looked back at the other detective. Wisely, he stepped away quietly.

"Oh, yes you are," Vash snapped. "You've got your watchdog patrol making me wear one of these so join the club."

Wolfwood took a step closer and lowered his voice. "Yeah, well he's not exactly going to hurt me, is he? That would ruin his fun. But he's got a hate-on for you something fierce and you know it. You're the one in danger here. You know I'm right about this."

Vash glanced up sharply and they shared a silent look, gazes locked. It lasted for a moment before Vash nodded, breaking the tension.

Wolfwood looked relieved. "Good. So you wear the vest, I don't. And I want you and your team to pack up in the next ten minutes and pull back."

"Are you insane? If we—"

"I said 'pull back' not 'get the hell out of here'. I want you out of sight, but I don't want you gone. He said no cops, so we give him no cops. Stay close, but only move in if you have to. You've got our team with you, they're smart. They're loyal. They answer to us and not that bonehead Bennigan. They won't mess this up. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Vash agreed but he sounded sulky. "But just so you know, I don't like it."

Wolfwood tried for a laugh. "Come on, he wants to see how I work, right? Well this is how I work." He stretched his arms wide and grinned hugely. "No vests. No teams or crews or bodyguards."

"And no partner?" Vash tried to say sardonically, but it came out like a spat curse.

Wolfwood didn't humor the remark with more than a raised eyebrow. "Are you kidding me?" he asked. He turned his back and walked away, heading to a cluster of officers to give them their new orders. Suddenly, he stopped. Over his shoulder he said, "You know already, don't you? Most of this is for you. Most of this is _about_ you."

He didn't turn to see the expression on Vash's face and he didn't want to. A minute later he could hear his partner spreading the word to his crew and assigning a new base. Fifteen minutes later and the street would be clear. Then it would be just as Picasso wanted: just the two of them and the night as silent witness.

Somehow, he didn't have it in him to watch Vash walk away so he whispered his destination to a nearby officer and then headed down the alley leading to the club.

He had an hour and a half left.

* * *

It was a well-hidden place. He looked up at the doorway of the club and imagined that thousands of thousands of people passed it by every day, completely unaware it was there. The entrance wasn't off the street as it should have been, but a side door in a puddle-filled alley. The sign over the door was painted; it proclaimed the establishment to be "The Zone" and it was kind of pathetic for a place with a name like that to look as rundown and cheap as this. He walked down the shadowy, too-narrow space. No new customers were lined up outside thanks to Vash and that was something, at least. 

Once he was far enough in, he could make out the broad, mountain-like shape of two men whose genetic coding had proclaimed them bouncers at conception. They were friendlier-looking than some of the ones Wolfwood had dealt with back in May, but not by much. He'd never met a bouncer who could intimidate him because he never met a bouncer that didn't prove the bigger-they-are-the-harder-they-fall rule. The pair eyed him suspiciously.

"ID?" one of them—the guy with the bigger fists decorated with knuckle rings—grunted.

He flashed his badge. "Detective Wolfwood, JCPD." There was no instantaneous "And I'm Detective Vash Saverem" from beside him added on the end and it was odd without it, but he had to do this without Vash. He couldn't keep him from coming to the scene—from doing his job—but he could at least keep him out of the line of fire.

"Warrant?" That was Knuckle Ring, again.

"I'm not arresting anyone." He chuckled dryly. "Yet. I'm just having a look around. And asking for your cooperation."

That got a mildly intelligent look out of the guy with the holster hidden badly beneath his light blazer. "With what?"

"Picasso."

At that, Bruiser Number Two in the jacket visibly retracted, as if trying to get far away from the Wolfwood as possible. Bruiser Number One with the knuckle ring looked confused. "The painter with the cubes and stuff?"

It was just the sort of reminder Wolfwood didn't want: no matter how hard they tried, how many times they issued statements or stood through rounds of questions during press conferences, there was always somebody they didn't reach. People who worked different hours or just plain strange hours. People who didn't own TVs or didn't watch them or tuned out when the news came on because, really, who wants to hear all that shit going on in the world? These were the ones that never knew a killer stalked the streets among them. The ones who went to bed at night and slept well, draped in the warm illusion of safety.

That was just the way things were, but it upset Wolfwood most at times like this. Times like this when the guy he was talking to happened to work at the same club as the girl whose picture they'd been showing since morning. And the guy didn't have a clue.

"He means the killer, idiot."

"That painter's a killer? I mean, I never liked his style, but I didn't think he was a killer." Knuckle Ring said, proving Wolfwood's first impression of the guy right.

Bruiser Number Two shook his head as if he couldn't believe he worked with this guy. "Different guy. They just call 'em that 'cause he does weird things to the bodies. Don't you read the papers?"

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "No way."

"Well, you should."

"Why? What the hell has this got to do with anything?"

Wolfwood decided to cut it. "We have reason to believe Picasso may be here tonight."

"Holy shit!" Knuckle Ring said. "We should call the cops."

"You blind? The cops is already here," the smart one chimed in and jabbed a thumb at the officers still visible at the end of the alley. "'sides, he is the cops."

Wolfwood resisted the urge to look at his watch. "Look, I need to get in there and I need you to keep people out. Customers, other cops. Nobody gets through."

The pair exchanged a dubious look and then stared back down the alley where what seemed to be an arm of guys in blue were waiting. "That's just bad business, mister. You get a bunch of uniforms coming over here—looking official and all—and I'm not gonna want to stop them."

"They have orders to stay back. This is just in case they don't know how to follow them. Politely remind them that I don't want them going in."

"Uh-uh. Like I said: It's bad business."

"It'll be even worse for business if you have a murder inside your club because you didn't follow my orders. And it could get even worse if you obstruct an investigation. People do time for that kind of thing."

The smart one threw in the towel first. "Okay, I get your point. Not a big deal. We give."

"We do?" Knuckle Ring asked, looking dumber than ever.

"We _do_. You goin' in alone? I mean, you've got all those blues with you. You sure you don't need, you know, backup?"

"Trust me: backup would be bad tonight," Wolfwood said and threw his cigarette on the ground.

"Hey, where they goin'?" Knuckle Ring asked and stared wide-eyed and mouth agape at the entrance to the alley.

Wolfwood followed his gaze and watched as the last unit slid silently away up the street. Then there was nothing left to show they had been there at all. Vash was with them, he thought half in relief and half in anxiety.

"They have orders to pull back."

"Uh...orders from who?" asked Bruiser Number One.

"Orders from me."

He glanced back at the street a few more times and finally had to force himself to stop. Expecting the boys in blue to be there, expecting his partner to be there and seeing nothing but the blur of lights and colors as cars passed—it didn't frighten him, it just reminded him to be cautious. Besides, they were out there, somewhere. Just because he couldn't see them, didn't mean they weren't out there. And he had time left, maybe wouldn't need them, but he had to do this right.

"I appreciate your cooperation, gentlemen," he said and stepped past them.

"Yeah," said Knuckle Ring. "You, uh, you know, take care."

"I'll do that."

He'd try, anyway. That's all anybody ever could do.

* * *

Inside was raucous and wild. It was bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside, wider with taller ceilings than he'd expected, the concrete of the floor he could see stained and grubby. The club was also crowded. He couldn't believe it was as lively as it was this early into the night. But like the girl at the coffee shop had said, this wasn't a good place. A quick search back at the station had revealed that they were already on probation for serving to minors. The patrons had a certain reckless, sleazy look. Young, stupid. 

Visibility where the disorienting lights didn't reach was poor at best. The corners were swamped with inky shadows and it was impossible to take in the entirety of the room in one sweep. He felt exposed. Briefly he recalled Vash's description of his pursuit of their only suspect through that factory downtown; how he had rushed in to a situation just like this—no place that could serve as cover, no way to watch your own back and no backup at all. God he hoped things turned out better this time.

He entered the room and squinted when a painful flash of light shot into his eye. It was a relief when the rotating light moved away to strobe across the floor and illuminate the sweating bodies of the dancers as if they were covered in glitter.

Sudden. Undeniable. It was the shiver down his spine. It was the heavy weight of eyes on him.

He froze. Nothing here was what it seemed.

With slow, deliberate movements, he removed his jacket. Underneath was the business white he'd borrowed from Vash and his shoulder holster. He laid the jacket down gently on the nearest table and lifted his hands surrender-style. The people around him were too involved in their own worlds to think it strange that he was standing perfectly still at the entrance to a crowded dance hall with his arms raised. Maybe, he mused, to them he looked like he was dancing. And who knew what they thought of the gun in its holster.

When he turned in a circle, he did so slowly. _I'm armed_, he thought as if the other man could hear him, _but no tricks, see?_

He didn't know how he knew, but...

Picasso _was_ here.

The tension in the air, the potential for damage and primal flashing of lights and color. This was a world made for a man like him. He was here. Somewhere, watching him flounder, anxiously waiting for him to fail. But he had time. Things weren't lost, yet. He pulled out the photo and approached the bar. He tried to thread his way through the crowd, walking the perimeter to assess the situation and maybe even locate the girl. It was a struggle with the bodies twisting in the blare, chopped to pieces by the alternating patterns of light and dark. It was a familiar feeling. How often had he worked this scene, pretending to be one of the crowd, until one day he hadn't been pretending anymore?

The bartenders weren't unhelpful, but they weren't exactly founts of information either.

"Yeah, she's here today. Working the floor," one of them said with a leer and Wolfwood wondered if there was more to Linda's job here than the girl at the coffee shop had said. "Ain't seen her in awhile. She's out there somewhere," the man continued and gestured at the jam-packed floor. "Good luck."

There was nothing to do but keep looking, keep asking, screaming questions over the loud music to people who only shook their heads no. It was stifling in here. Moving even an inch was a battle and everywhere he looked he saw something to remind him of the things he'd rather not think about right now.

A pair of young, healthy-looking boys, hair dyed outrageous colors, ground against each other desperately, out-of-time with the music. A pale hand slithered down, disappeared beneath too-tight denim and there was a surprised, pleased gasp as a head rolled back. It wasn't dancing anymore. His eyes lingered on them for a minute and then looked away.

He had an hour left. Where the hell was she? Where?

He'd made a complete circle, understood the layout of the room, and had even walked the cramped, dirty bathrooms with no luck. The club was violating about twelve different fire and safety codes. The worst of them was the fact that the only way out besides the way he'd come in was blocked by a heavy speaker. It was like a suicide kitchen on a train. One way in, one way out. If anything went wrong...

Even with time left, he started to feel the crush of panic. He wiggled through a pair of enthusiastic dancers, stumbled on a sticky patch on the ground, and saw a hand flying towards him—the out-flung arm of young woman too wrapped up in the music and motion to notice him—too late to do anything but flinch and draw back. It came at him—

And never hit. Wolfwood looked up in shock. The hand, adorned by a turquoise rock that would have hurt had it made contact, was hovering, motionless, two inches away from his face. He lowered his arms from where they were shielding his face jerkily and then gawked at the woman who was as still as a statue. Then he whirled to take in the entire scene. What he saw made his mouth drop open: a room full of silent dancers frozen in time. The music blared through the speakers with no cheers or gasps or moans to mar it and it thundered through his feet and up to where his heart outpaced it.

Nobody was moving and their faces were masks of excitement and lust and exhaustion. Here and there were the glassy-eyed looks of the users and the drunks, preserved in perfect stillness. And he knew, better than most, that Picasso was not normal, that he could do..._things_. But seeing it first hand was sobering and terrifying. How could he hope to fight a man who could do these things? He remembered Kelly Morgan with her head facing the wrong way and her heart a tattered mess in her chest from where it had exploded. He remembered the prostitute, Brett, from the club, torn to pieces with his blood on the walls and the ceiling. Picasso could do things no human should be able to do. And he was seeing it first hand.

"What the fuck?" he heard and whirled towards the voice, a shocking sound in all this nothingness. Towards the entrance there were about twenty people who hadn't been affected. They seemed terrified but otherwise unhurt. The boy who had spoken looked like the prototype for all Goth Boys; he was an album cover waiting to happen with all the chains and tattoos. He was also about to make a stupid mistake, edging closer to a motionless girl dressed similarly to him.

"Don't move," Wolfwood barked. "JCPD, everybody stay exactly where you are." He flashed his badge and was glad that they actually respected it. He had a couple scars from those times when the badge hadn't done shit.

While they stood there, Wolfwood studied them carefully. What was different? Why weren't they frozen like the others?

They were all standing nearby him. Could that be the answer? Had Picasso held back—sparing the people nearest him—not wanting to endanger the game by accidentally paralyzing him? Somehow, he got the feeling that he was wrong about that. He scanned the room again, trying to think faster than he was capable of when he was dealing with a madman like this. Only the people on this side of the room, near the entrance. Only the people...

It was almost like—

He heard crying as the song switched.

"Everybody who can move, get out of here! Run! Now!"

They didn't run immediately, as if the command took a moment to process. But once it caught up with them, they bolted from the room, shoving each other to be the first out. "Go, go! Don't turn around and don't come back! Find a police officer and wait with them!"

"But my girlfriend!" the Goth cried.

Wolfwood pulled his piece and sighted down the barrel, aim perfect. "Want to join her?"

The kid had probably never run so fast in his life. He was the last one out and then it was just the music from the speakers and the silence from the crowd. He'd only saved twenty-two people by his count and wishing he could get the others out was a waste of time, but still. He holstered his gun and turned back to the floor.

The crying was louder now and it had fits of whimpers in between. There wasn't enough time in the world to deal with all this. It should have been easier to dart through the crowd with everyone still like this, but their bodies were configured in impossible poses and he had to contort his own body to maneuver at all. He passed the boys again, frozen as they had been, almost making love on the dance floor.

Breathless, he came to a clearing. In the center of the open space was the redhead—Linda—dressed in a barely-there outfit, her arms flush to her sides and her feet pressed together as if she were tied that way. But there were no bonds on her body, nothing visibly keeping her there. Only her face seemed free of the constriction holding the rest of her body and tears streamed down her face and the muscles in her jaw twitched nervously.

He took a step forward. He'd made it. He'd found her in time. "It's okay," he said and held out his hands palm up and tried to remember how Vash handled people in distress, tried to be someone Linda felt like she could trust. "I'm with the police. My name is Nick. Are you hurt?"

"God, help me," she sobbed. "I can't move. He...he's still here." Terror joined the words and made them screech from her throat.

"Shhh, it's okay." One small step at a time, he edged towards her. "Are you hurt?" he repeated and took a slightly larger step.

"N-no...but...he's gonna kill me. God, you have to get me out of here! Help me!"

Just two more steps. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay." He lowered his hands onto her stiff, cold shoulders. "I've got you," he said and felt her body suddenly turn warm and pliable in his hands. He caught her as she stumbled forward and crashed against him.

"Thank you, thank you," she sobbed against his shirt—Vash's shirt. "Thank you, thank you. P-please get me out of here. I couldn't run, I couldn't move!"

He took her hands in both of his and his smile was genuine and not some trick he'd pulled from Vash. "It's okay, you're all right. Can you walk? Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, please!" she said and then looked into his eyes with such gratitude that Wolfwood felt a little undeserving.

Which is when an entire unit burst through the door, guns raised and badges out. "Police, freeze!" they screamed over the music. And Wolfwood could hear their confusion when they realized nobody was moving, could hear them take a step back in surprise and fear. There were no words to describe the heavy, disappointed, failed emotion that tumbled from his heart down to his stomach, like a demolished building coming down. _Shit_, he thought.

"Fall back!" he shouted at the bewildered cops. These weren't his guys.

"I said no one but me!" And Wolfwood decided that Bennigan was going to need much more than stitches by the time he got finished pounding his face into the floor for this. The uniforms couldn't see him, but they could hear him and why were they still standing there with their guns out when they—

"Wrong move, Detective," he heard a voice whisper as if it was standing right beside him. Somehow he knew that if he turned his head towards it, there would be nothing there. The voice seemed to resound inside his mind, as if that's where it originated.

"I told you no cops. I wanted to see _you_."

His first instinct was to scan the room for a flicker of movement, to try and catch the perp, but he knew better. They had to get out of here and they had to get out _now_.

"Run!" he screamed. Linda jumped first in surprise and then responded in a rush with her thin arms waving wildly in front of her, trying to push the bodies blocking her path out of the way. He struggled through the jungle of motionless bodies around him to catch up with her and soon outpaced her, grabbed her hand and tugged her with him.

But then something was happening, from one second to the next, a small fraction of time. His feet felt so heavy...

He took two, three, four dragging steps forward.

Linda had stopped running and was staring back at him with wild eyes. "No," she whispered. "No, no!"

He didn't understand why he couldn't move. And why was she staring at him with such fear? No, not _at_ him; over his shoulder there was something...

"I warned you," he heard and it crashed through the space around them and sent his skin shivering.

Could he reason with this man? Could he explain? "It wasn't me! It wasn't—"

"Too late."

He felt his fingers slipping away from Linda's.

"Don't leave me!" she begged.

But his feet weren't on the floor anymore and he was looking down at her. He stretched forward, tried to keep her hands, tried not to let her go. "Linda! Run!"

He felt flung back like a pebble from a slingshot, curved around himself in the air like there was a cannonball in his gut. Over the heads of the silent crowd below. Arms flailing and legs kicking, he tried to fight it, but the force the speed...

He hit the wall—cracking intensity up his spine, light exploding through his vision—and slid down it, eyes wide open to see Linda's terrified face screaming and screaming endlessly, hands still reaching for him. The sound was wrenched from her throat, like the sound of someone trapped in burning car as the flames wrap around them. Wolfwood stood sluggishly, pain flaring across the scars on his back, and broke into a run, met resistance at every stride as the dancers and clubbers were suddenly reanimated, blocking his path as they stumbled in surprise at their numb fingers and toes.

"Oh my god!" someone screamed. And then the whole room was screaming at something he couldn't see.

There was a strange crunching sound loud enough to be heard over the sound of the crowd and the thundering beat of the music. Like a million brittle pieces of porcelain slamming into the floor.

"Move, move!" he shouted. "Police, out of my way!" But they weren't listening. They were panicking and trying to get away from something and he was afraid and certain all at once that he knew what it was. The cops at the door didn't know how to react to the chaos heading for them. Wolfwood managed to make good strides forward just as the crowd parted to grant him a glimpse of what had caused the stampede.

Something was in the middle of the confusion and waves of bodies were rushing away from it. _Ah, hell_, Wolfwood managed to think just as he was bulldozed backwards by a new wave of bodies. He didn't stand a chance: the only one heading towards the problem in a room full of people desperately trying to get away from it. One more push and he was right in front of the exit again, watching the unit of cops trying and failing to maintain order. _Damn, damn, damn_...

His next thought was _ouch_.

He had connected with wall, pain flaring along every cut and bruise, snapping along his battered spine. The bodies kept coming and he was being pushed hard into the wall. A shoulder wedged into his ribs and he threw his head back and screamed. Then the rush scooted him along the perimeter of the room, further and further into a corner. He figured this was going to hurt. A passerby clipped him with their elbow and yet another got him in the shin with a solid kick. He stumbled back gracelessly, expecting his shoulders to wedge into the alcove made by wall meeting wall and instead landed on something altogether softer than he had expected.

_No_, he thought. _No._

Everything went quiet. The youth of the club in their bright, slutty clothes continued to scream as they passed, he just couldn't hear them. Everything before him seemed to merge and streak like he was on a merry-go-round and the world was a carnival. And then quite suddenly nothing moved at all again. Even the cops to his right were halted in mid-step, guns drawn and mouths wide open as they hollered at the room to freeze. Wolfwood shut his eyes against the sight as the reality of just how fucked he was sank in. He'd been here to see it all and now he was behind him.

It was just the two of them, trapped in a dead world together.

All the remaining sounds in the room—the music, the door swinging on its hinges, and the distant sound of the footsteps of those who had made it out—were muffled by the distinct, even sound of the heartbeat behind him. It was strong and steady and somehow reminded him of what the heart of a jungle cat might sound like just before it tore out the throat of a gazelle.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._ And really, he couldn't even be mad at anyone else because, yeah, he'd let himself be herded against this wall like a calf to the slaughter. There were a dozen things he could have done—pull his piece, punch his way through—but he hadn't and here was his bitter reward.

Swallowing didn't make the sound return. He slowly reached for his gun.

"Move and they all die."

Wolfwood froze. Again, the voice seemed to come from all around and from inside his head where it echoed and then settled like concrete at the bottom of the sea.

"Okay," he said, halting. His fingers were itching to free the gun from its holster, no matter how little it would help. It was instinct.

"You made a mistake," the voice continued from behind him. "You disobeyed my instructions."

"It wasn't me. I did everything you said."

"No, you didn't, and now she's dead because of you. I'm going to enjoy making you realize your mistake. I'm going to rip him apart."

Just a flicker of an image in his mind, a goofy smile; a serious frown when he thought no one was looking. The image of a savior above him, seen through eyes made blurry by dripping blood and toxic drugs. The only bit of good from a dark time when he had been held prisoner by pain.

"Don't," he croaked and didn't recognize his own voice. It was feral and desperate and not too far from begging. He could feel Picasso's breath, hot and heavy, against his neck, as if he'd moved closer.

"This was fun. Didn't you have fun? I think you did." And Wolfwood couldn't tell from those words if he had won that round, if Picasso really would leave his partner alone or not. Could he interpret the subject change as a promise that Vash would be safe?

"Next time will be even better," Picasso said, his lips close enough to brush Wolfwood's skin.

Wolfwood almost choked on his anger. "Next time? You've seen me work now! You've seen enough! Let it go."

Picasso seemed to contemplate this. "No," he said after a moment. "You can't have both. I can change my mind again and then you'll be shy a partner. Do you want that?"

And he had his answer now and didn't know how to feel about it. "Damn you, no."

"Good. Besides, don't you want a chance to redeem yourself? After all, you were so close. You organized everything so well. The searches, the phones, the news stations. I thought you might actually pull it off. But you didn't, did you? Her death is nothing to feel bad about, really. She wasn't perfect. She was flawed and incomplete. She deserved to die."

"Yeah? We'll I'm no poster child. You know all about what I am, so why the hell am _I_ still alive and kicking?"

And it was the wrong thing to say—or maybe just the right thing—because he was pushed away. He slammed into one the bodies suspended in mid-motion before him. When he was certain on his feet, he balanced himself against a bare shoulder and found himself looking into unblinking, terrified eyes. Just another punk kid out for a night on the town.

When Picasso spoke again, his voice had a manic, vicious edge to it that had been missing before. "You excel at pushing your luck."

"Well it seems like I can get away with it with you. Otherwise, I'd be dead by now, wouldn't I?"

"There are far worse things than just being dead, Detective. I can make you suffer."

He wanted to turn around—to see what face owned a beautiful, poison voice like that—but knew that was a sure-fire way to open a world of trouble. "Then make _me_ suffer. Leave the girls alone. If it's me you want, leave them alone."

"You have _no_ idea what I want," Picasso hissed.

"Yeah," Wolfwood said harshly, "and neither do you."

And then he could only cry out as he was thrown back against the wall once again. It wasn't as hard as it might have been, knowing now what Picasso could do. It was a reprimand, the ultimate display of Picasso's anger with him. He was lashing out like a child and trying to hurt him. But kill him? No. For whatever reason, that he wouldn't do.

He fell to his knees and was almost kicked while he was down as the crowd was suddenly re-animated. In the confusion, he knew Picasso could slip away easily and the knowledge boiled inside him, heated rage and anger at how unfair the world was.

He rolled away from the feet threatening to trample him. Now the noise was deafening: the music he could strangely hear again, the shrieks of fear and anxiety. They went like wild animals for the door and didn't care who they knocked down or crushed to get away. He could once again hear the ineffective cries of the cops around him trying to bring order. None of it did any good. As the insanity struggled past him, all he could do was crawl backwards, make himself small and wait.

After a small lifetime, the room was empty save for him and the uniforms who had only managed to detain a handful of witnesses. Clubbers and cops alike had all turned away from what Wolfwood could see clearly for the first time. He stood and staggered towards it.

There was nothing left of her to identify her by but vibrant hair. The rest was splatters and violent drops of red covering a pile of something that had been flesh and muscle and bone. Once. The puddle oozed and spread. A cop in the corner was being sick into a wastebasket. The rest of them were looking at him.

"D-detective?" one of them asked uneasily.

"Why are you standing here doing nothing? Sweep the goddamn building and perimeter," he snapped. "You with Bennigan?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes."

"Well get Detective Saverem's team back in position and have them round up everybody _you_ just lost. We question everyone."

"Everyone?"

His eyes flashed with frustration and impatience before he was able to control it again. "Everyone. I want this place secured in ten minutes. Get forensics on the horn and call the meat wagon. Rope that off."

He turned quickly and followed the crowd from the room.

"Sir, where are you going?" the same officer asked, afraid because the detective looked like he was on a warpath and bad things tended to happen at times like that. Or maybe he didn't want to be left alone with the gore that had once been a girl.

"Is Bennigan out there?"

"Uh, yes, Detective."

"Then that's where I'm going."

"Um...Detective?"

"What?"

The cop hesitated at the edge to his voice and then said quietly, "You're bleeding." He pointed in the direction of Wolfwood's back.

Wolfwood frowned and then reached behind him. His hand, when he pulled it back, was covered in blood. Every scar he had must have opened up when he hit the wall. High on adrenaline, he hadn't even noticed. He could only imagine the pattern it made on his shirt—crimson lash marks like those a whip makes. It had been a hell of a day. Just brilliant.

He needed a cigarette.

But first he needed to find Bennigan, make him realize what a huge mistake he'd made, and then make him very, very sorry for it.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Thanks for reading to all and big hugs to reviewers. Big clues here. Big, big clues, hobbits. Yes, hobbits. Did you see 'em? 

Favorite part:

"It was just the two of them, trapped in a dead world together.

All the remaining sounds in the room—the music, the door swinging on its hinges, and the distant sound of the footsteps of those who had made it out—were muffled by the distinct, even sound of the heartbeat behind him. It was strong and steady and somehow reminded him of what the heart of a jungle cat might sound like just before it tore out the throat of a gazelle."

I don't have a reason why, I just like it.

Up next?

_"I want to talk to you about Detective Wolfwood. Is that okay?"_

_Bradley's wide face closed up. "I don't know anybody by that name. I've told you before."_

_"But you do, Bradley. It's important for you to realize that the man you call 'Chapel' never existed. Chapel was a codename for an undercover police detective. Don't you see?"_

_"Chapel's real," he snarled. "That cop isn't."_

In the next chapter, The Gauntlet storyline comes to an end. See you then.


	27. The Gauntlet, Part III

Warnings: Not beta-read and I mean SERIOUSLY not beta-read (not even by yours truly). Adult language and adult situations. Violence. OOC behavior.

The story so far:

During a summer of record-breaking heat in the city of July, Detectives Vash Saverem and Nicholas D. Wolfwood are hot on the trail of the serial killer known only as Picasso. Unfortunately, like the killer Leatherman three years ago, the killer has developed an unhealthy obsession with Wolfwood. The investigation has put the detectives at loggerheads with the department's chief, a stubborn man named Bennigan. Wolfwood and Vash have failed to rescue a girl Picasso had marked for death, largely due to Bennigan's interference. The story continues...

* * *

Part XXXIX:

The Gauntlet, Part III

* * *

The men and women in the bookshop across the street from the raucous club didn't know what to think of the cops camping out near the magazine rack. Half of them were in S.W.A.T. gear and all of them looked tense and nervous. The hunt for the mysterious girl in the photograph sent to Wolfwood that morning had led them to a situation that seemed impossible. The tension, the worry, it was all so very palpable. Someone was going to get hurt. 

"It's a mistake fer 'im to be in there alone," said Deevers, a cop born in Brooklyn who never had a good thing to say about the city of July.

Vash crossed his arms over his armor-covered chest and shook his head. "I don't like it either, but if we go in there, we put the girl's life in danger and everyone in the club, too."

He hadn't seen it, but he had known the minute Wolfwood disappeared into the alley that hid the entrance to the club to start the operation. They had discussed at length the best way to approach the scene and eventually decided on Wolfwood going in solo with Vash and his team near enough to step in if things go ugly.

"Can't he jus' clear the room er somethin'?" Deevers asked, rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Not easy. One skinny guy with a gun in a crowded club? Yeah, that's a disaster waiting to happen."

Vash left the other officers to muse about the operation while he moved closer to the door to squint at the dark alley. He heard a noise. It sounded like trouble. A red flicker of light caught his eye.

He was on the radio a second later. "Dispatch, are there units en route to..." he had to stop as five, six, seven squad cars tore around the corner and flooded the street.

"Get out there and run interference," Vash shouted and then tore out of the bookstore. "This is Saverem to units 7 and 12, return to your initial position. Repeat, return!" The radio in his hand was in danger of slipping from the sweat on his hands and the speed of his run.

He lunged off the curb, knew it was a dumb idea, but didn't stop to check traffic. Horns screamed at him and brakes wheezed and then shrieked. There was the sound of a car door getting too friendly with another car's taillight. He darted through the chaos and made it across the street just as Chief Bennigan stepped from his long, silver, town car. The footsteps of his team coming through the mess he'd left behind, the wail of the sirens—everything was too loud for his liking.

"Chief," Vash panted. "These units are for...?"

"Are for ME to command. I'm not leaving an operation like this to you two. You're on my shit list for not notifying me about this. I had to hear from dispatch that you had moved to this area at all! You're going down for this.

"And my boys," he said and smiled a self-satisfied smile, "are going in." As if he considered the matter closed, he turned his back on Vash.

Vash moved to argue with him, but never got the chance. Suddenly, there was a muffled sound coming from the alley, like an ocean wave caged in by a high wall. And then it was as if the wall tumbled down and the sound came through.

"Do you...hear that?" Bennigan asked.

The door, Vash realized. To the club. The door had been blocking the sound. But now it was open and someone was coming out.

A second later he revised his opinion. Not some_one_.

They dove out of the alley at a dead run, crashing into each other and refusing to stop. The cops weren't ready for them. Vash counted twenty-two men and women, dressed to party and terrified out of their minds.

"Hold it, hold it!" An officer to his left was saying, trying to round up the crowd. He grabbed a young man dressed in black.

"What the hell is going on in there?"

"T-they're all...they can't move! It's like...it's like they're statues, dude. And this guy...he fucking pulled a gun on me!"

Bennigan made a strange noise—half bark, half growl. His big chest seemed to swell out balloon-like. "This has gone on long enough. There's a gunman in there and we've only got one incompetent hotshot in there? That's enough, I think. We're going in."

"But you can't!" Vash stumbled to stand in front of him once more. "Didn't you hear what we told you this morning? If anyone besides Wolfwood goes in, he'll kill her."

"And all we have is your partner's word on that. I'm not willing to risk this guy getting away. Boys!" he shouted, "Move out!"

Vash raised a hand, a small gesture, an easy gesture, but his units moved, blocking the entrance to the alley.

"I'm sorry, Chief, but I can't let you do that."

As Bennigan and Vash sized each other up cautiously, cop opposed cop in a strange battle. Bennigan glared at the standoff. He was, at heart, a calculating man. The officers were not the problem. They were following orders. If you want to save a patient from cancer, he knew, you cut out the tumor.

He snapped orders at the officers nearest him. "Officers, restrain Detective Saverem."

They moved in, but Vash was ready for them. "Sorry, Henley," he said, and clocked the guy who got there first.

It took five guys to do it, but eventually Vash was restrained. He didn't quite catch the nametag on the guy with the killer left hook. His cheek was bruised and his lip bleeding. The blues holding his arms weren't taking any chances, weren't giving him an opportunity to fight again.

"You're stripped of your command," Bennigan hissed.

Blocking the alley, Vash's team looked confused.

Bennigan looked at them, still calculating. "Officer Saverem's team, stand aside."

"Detective Sa—" someone tried.

"_Officer_," Bennigan reiterated. "_Officer_ Saverem." His smile was pointed and cruel.

When Vash's team didn't move, he screamed at them. "Move aside NOW or I'll have all of your badges!"

They moved, slowly, and Vash could hear worried whispers. They had done their best, but it hadn't been enough.

"Chief, please don't do this!"

Bennigan looked around at the assembled officers. "You have your orders. Keep in contact at all times. Now, MOVE OUT!"

They fell into line, two abreast, and moved down the narrow alley. A minute later, loud voices reached them from deep within the alley. _"The Detective said—"_

_"I don't care what the Detective said. The Chief says...Hey now, big fella. Put the gun down."_

Vash tensed. _Gun? Who had a gun?_

There was the briefest sound of a struggle and then the officer's footsteps were on the move again.

Edgy silence followed. Vash, still restrained, could only bleed and wait. Two minutes passed, three minutes passed.

When the sound came this time, it wasn't an ocean wave; it was a hurricane.

Vash felt goose bumps spread down his back and arms. "Officers, get ready for—"

"You have no right to give orders," Bennigan interrupted.

By then, it was too late. This time, there was no end to the bodies racing out. The street flooded with them. Club girls, goth boys, partiers, drinkers, ravers. They didn't want to stop, they didn't want to talk. They wanted to get away from whatever they had seen.

"What the hell?" a uniform exclaimed and then did a fair job at rounding up a small cluster of people from the rushing crowd.

"Somebody tell me what happened in there!"

"She...she...she was ripped apart!"

Vash winced and looked down. He didn't know what had happened in there, but now he had a pretty good idea.

"All the blood—"

"Like she just...exploded—"

"There were all these cops—they just showed up—but I didn't want to be next so—"

Their voices overlapped and blurred and Vash felt a little sick and a little dizzy, but now wasn't the time for that.

"You fellas want to let me go so we can all do our jobs?" Vash said and tugged on his arms. None of the guys were feeling too indisposed to him since they all sported cuts and bruises of their own, but they released him and moved into the confusion of the fleeing mob to try to bring order.

Vash's eyes scanned the crowd. Picasso was here somewhere. He had to be. Vash studied, however briefly, every face. Somehow, he thought he'd know him, sense him. Maybe the scar on his forehead from the baseball bat the killer had nailed him with would give a warning throb in recognition, he joked with himself.

Bennigan was too busy to have him restrained again and the uniforms looked to be doing a good enough job, considering. Vash made his way to the alley, his thoughts already two steps ahead. He stopped when a figure clad in a tattered shirt that used to belong to him stormed out of the alley. Vash let out a nervous breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Wolfwood," he whispered.

"Bennigan," Wolfwood screamed. The street went silent. Bennigan whirled to take in the red-faced detective and got a face full of fist. Wolfwood didn't stop swinging, even after half the officers nearest him got hold of him. Two guys got elbows in the face when Wolfwood's long arms flailed out.

"Let me go!" But they didn't. They held on tighter, looked madder.

Bennigan only smeared blood on his arm and the pristine cuffs of his shirt when he wiped at his mouth. "You son of a bitch. That's the second time."

He took two heavy steps forward. "Hold him."

"Ooof," Wolfwood blew out when the first fist connected with his gut. The second one never got a chance to land because Vash was holding it, his skinny arms stronger than they looked.

"Don't, Chief. Just _don't_."

Wolfwood pulled his arms free and stood there, winded, but hardly beaten. "You bastard," he spat. "I had her! I had her safe and then you sent in your dogs!"

"Are you blaming _me_ for this fiasco? Why wasn't I notified sooner about your operation?"

"Because we were worried you were going to do something stupid, which you did _anyway_!" He paused to take a deep breath and clutched at his stomach. "A girl is _dead_ because of you. I hope you can fucking sleep tonight."

Bennigan had nothing to say, but he tore his fist from Vash's grasp angrily. He turned away from them, wide shoulders heaving up and down, and then said in a vitriolic whisper, "You're both going down for this."

With that, he moved into the crowd of officers and witnesses, leaving Vash and Wolfwood on the sidelines. The officers nearest them looked confusedly between their battered forms and the angry lines of Bennigan's back. They slinked away quietly.

Wolfwood cursed under his breath while Vash scanned the scene with wide eyes. "We should help."

"We're not welcome here," Wolfwood said in a pained voice.

"Y-you're...you're hurt." Noticing the blood on his partner's neck and shoulders, he moved to stand behind him and his eyes widened. "You're hurt bad."

"I'll live," Wolfwood grumbled and lit a cigarette. As if it sounded like a brilliant idea, he flopped down onto the curb and watched officers run back and forth, more units arrive, and spectators come out of the woodwork. "I met him, Vash. He was here."

Vash tensed. "You talked to him?"

Wolfwood coughed raggedly around the cigarette and a vile plume of smoke wreathed his head. "Oh, yeah. We had a nice long chat. He's _not_ human, Vash. He's not anything close to human."

"Did you see him?"

"No, he's too smart for that. He had the entire room under some kind of spell or...I don't know what. He got me, too."

"What do you mean?"

Wolfwood held out his hands, studying them as he spoke. "I couldn't control my own body. I felt like, I dunno, a puppet or something." Pain slurred his words and made his accent more pronounced. "He tore that girl into pieces."

"We can talk about this later," Vash said worriedly, uneasily, crouching down beside him. "We've got to get your wounds looked at."

Wolfwood looked like he wanted to argue, saw the expression on Vash's face and went silent. Finally, he said, "Okay, partner. Just let me finish this, okay?" He took a long drag on the cigarette and the end blazed.

The ambulance arrived on the scene and blocked traffic for long moments as the driver tried to find a good way through the chaos.

"Let's go," Vash said, urgency in his voice. "Once the body's out of here and the scene's cleared up, there will be nothing to stop Bennigan from taking this out on us. You're right: we can't do anything here. Let's just go."

It was such an uncharacteristic thing for Vash to say—for Vash to choose to leave people behind who needed his help—that Wolfwood saw through it immediately. "You're just trying to drag me to a hospital for stitches, aren't you?"

"Well, maybe," was Vash's sheepish reply.

Wolfwood let the cigarette fall from his mouth as he struggled to his feet. The last part of the way, he leaned on Vash, making jokes about feeling like an invalid.

"Did Bennigan sock you, too? You're bleeding."

Vash rubbed at his jaw. "No, Bennigan didn't get his hands dirty with me. You should see the other guys, though. They look much worse."

"I'm sure," Wolfwood said on a cough, still holding his stomach. "Come on, kid. Let's get out of here."

They limped away together, the sound of sirens fading away into nothingness behind them.

From the shadows a figure watched them—their arms around each other like they'd fall without that support. And maybe they would. "Chapel," the man named Legato said. "Detective," he added then licked his lips, remembering how Wolfwood's skin had tasted against them. In a way, he'd almost held him. In a way, they had danced together, bodies close, breath mingling. Everything—absolutely _everything_—was beautiful.

* * *

The back of the white shirt he wore was stiff with dried blood. It had dripped onto the waist of the slacks he wore and stained those too. He had a bruise every couple of inches from the forehead down. Vash looked like he'd been hit by a truck. Oddly, the dark scar on his forehead was the nicest looking part of his face right now. He kept a cube of ice on his swelling cheek and grumbled about it every couple of minutes. The rest of the bar patrons gave them a wide berth, like avoiding a smelly dumpster on the street. 

"These scars," the doctor had said frowning and then stopped speaking before the words became a question. Sometimes, not knowing is easier and even doctors get tired of hearing, "I tripped."

They'd stitched them up, told them they didn't want to see them anytime soon, and then given them pain killers they didn't intend to take because the bottles said, "Do not ingest while under the influence of alcohol."

Sitting at a bar, hunched over drinks neither man touched, Wolfwood realized quite suddenly that this was some funny shit.

And after a solid minute of him laughing alone, Vash finally joined in. Between the two of them, somehow they got the joke. When they were both wiping at the corners of their eyes, Vash said, "Y-you owe me a n-new shirt."

"Y-yeah...this one's torn all the hell up. The pants aren't so h-hot either."

"You destroyed them on purpose because they look better on me!"

"Damn, he figured me out."

"And I liked that shirt. I really did."

"Maybe this is a sign. Maybe red is really your color."

Vash shrugged. "Who knows? I used to be a Bulls fan."

And it was such a mundane thing in the face of failure and murder that they fell silent, each thinking private thoughts that the other probably knew anyway. Finally, Wolfwood rapped his bruised knuckles on the hard wood of the bar.

"You know, Vash, we've been through a lot. We've been kicked while we were down before. We've had hard times, but we always get the job done."

"Yeah," Vash whispered. "Yeah."

"We're older than we should be."

Vash lifted his glass and his eyes to Wolfwood's. "Cheers, partner."

Wolfwood lifted his own. "Cheers, kid. Here's to dying young."

So they shared a drink, and then another. The satellite radio station cranked out sad songs and Zeppelin in turns. Blocks and blocks _that _way, roughly over Wolfwood's left shoulder, a crime scene was getting trampled over by beat cops with two left feet and no delicacy. In a somewhat easterly direction, a girl was turning colder by the second, what was left of her in several bags on a metal table, waiting for Old Man Cain to try and make sense out of how she'd gotten that way with no external cuts.

At the station, Bennigan was probably dotting the i's on all the forms to have them fired or demoted. At least he'd need another set of stitches. Wolfwood wished he'd hit him harder.

Vash, swaying on his barstool, proposed another toast, this one to old friends, pretty flowers, and warm sweaters in winter. Wolfwood seconded it. He had a headache that wouldn't go away.

Another drink might fix it, he realized. But then again, another drink might just make him say or do something stupid. Vash was nothing but trouble and always had been. Always would be, to Wolfwood, anyway.

"Well, let's call it a night. I need some sleep and so do you. It's been a long day."

Vash nodded. "Yeah, it has."

So a cab was called and shared and since Vash's place was closer to the bar, he got home first. Before he staggered onto the sidewalk, he patted Wolfwood on the shoulder. "You take care. You won't do any good to anybody torn up in the morning, okay?"

Wolfwood wasn't so drunk that he missed that. He asked anyway. "What do you mean?"

Vash looked at the ground, then Wolfwood straight in the eye. "I mean, you _have_ gotten it out of your system, haven't you?"

And, yeah, he'd made a mistake, but he'd enjoyed it while it was happening, every time the whip came down and the pain flared up. And, yeah, he regretted it now, but how could he answer Vash honestly because, yeah, was it ever truly 'out' of his system, or did it just lie dormant?

"I'm not going out tonight, Vash," was the most he could promise.

"Good," said, as if that was enough, for now.

For now.

Vash still walked with a slight limp to the entrance of his apartment, then disappeared behind the door. He'd go up the stairs, collapse on his bed, sleep, dream, be Vash. In his apartment. Wolfwood had been there just that morning, was supposed to have been waiting for Vash when he got home. Was supposed to have given a name to whatever kept him with Vash and Vash with him.

He gave his address to the driver, sat back and tried not to think about it.

* * *

Wolfwood crawled into bed that night and was asleep almost immediately despite the pain in every inch of his body. He wasn't surprised by the dreams he had. They were worse tonight because now a girl named Linda, who'd died too young, was torn into something less than human and her blood sprayed the dark room around her like a fountain. He'd failed. 

In life, in dreams, he always failed.

He awoke—sweating and breathless—when he heard a noise. Instinct had his gun in his hand and his body halfway across the room before he was even fully awake. He shook off the bad dreams and edged around the doorframe. He spun out, checked left, right, and then moved to his next cover. Alcohol seemed to pool in his brain, making him feel sluggish.

The room was dark, but he could see the graying tones of morning ready to break through the windows. There were no more sounds to guide him, but he knew already where to go. Somehow, he just knew.

On the doorstep was another manila envelope like the one he'd found in Vash's apartment the day before. He stared at it for countless minutes, the gun at his side. He knew that there would be another photograph inside of another girl who didn't deserve what was about to happen to her. He knew he had another chance to get this right. Or to fail.

And more than anything else, he knew that, to Picasso, the game was just beginning.

He reached for his cell phone. The mumbled answer was cute. Endearing. Completely inappropriate to think about at length.

"Rise and shine, partner. We've got work to do."

* * *

Doctor Steven Vaughn set his clipboard onto the table beside him and looked at the mountain of a man sitting before him, chained and yet still terrifying. Madness made his eyes like vacant space. 

Vaughn was feeling ill at ease from the unexpected phone call he'd received that morning. There was too much riding on Bradley's cooperation. Too many lives at stake.

"I want to talk to you about Detective Wolfwood. Is that okay?" Vaughn said carefully.

Bradley Monev, the killer known as 'the Leatherman,' had been in SCU—the Tank— since the detective's visit. His violent outburst had done little to convince the warden and guards that he wasn't a threat to himself and others. He looked a little pale, a little wild. His obsession with the man responsible for his arrest still haunted him. As far as Vaughn could see, Monev had, in his own way, loved Detective Wolfwood. He felt betrayed and vengeful.

Bradley's wide face closed up at the name. "I don't know anybody by that name. I've told you before."

"But you do, Bradley. It's important for you to realize that the man you call 'Chapel' never existed. Chapel was a codename for an undercover police detective. Don't you see?"

"Chapel's real," Monev snarled. "That cop isn't."

Vaughn interlaced his fingers and crossed his legs. "Can you tell me why you think so?"

Monev gave him a sharp look. "You know already. Why am I here?"

Vaughn affected a confused look. "You have a scheduled appointment. I just figured you'd want to talk about the detective."

"I don't."

Vaughn stood abruptly. "Then we have nothing to talk about. You can spend another week in the Tank for all I care."

He nodded to the guards and turned his back briskly. Monev's eyes widened. "No, wait! Don't!"

He was wrestled to his feet by guards large enough to make it look easy. His heavy feet and the chains around them made an odd noise on the floor. It sounded very final.

"Please! I'll talk about him. I'm okay now. I'm okay!"

Vaughn turned to face him, saw true fear on his red face and wondered, not for the first time, exactly what the guards did to the inmates unfortunate enough to end up in the Tank.

"All right."

The guards looked indignant. "I said 'all right'," he repeated and the guards pushed him back down roughly.

"We're watching you, freak," one of them said.

Vaughn settled back into his chair and faced Monev seriously. "Bradley, Picasso has killed again."

The inmate's face seemed to light up. "Really?"

"Yes, and from what I've been able to learn, Detective Wolfwood was on the scene. I believe he was injured."

The light dimmed instantly, replaced by fury. "He...hurt him?"

"Bradley, this is important. He's going to kill again. He's going to do anything he can to get Detective Wolfwood's—"

"_Chapel's_," Bradley hissed.

And some battles weren't mean to be won. Especially when the battle was over a moot point. They both knew what Wolfwood was. One minute alone with the man was enough to tell anyone that he had darkness in his soul that was deeper and truer than the light he projected. Chapel was as real as Bradley said.

"All right. Picasso is going to do anything he can to get Chapel's attention. You don't believe he'll stop at getting his attention, do you?"

Bradley looked down and away, but didn't answer.

"Bradley, would you have been satisfied with _just_ De...Chapel's attention?"

"No," was the answer, said in a small, knowing voice.

"Picasso won't stop there, either. He's going to hurt him. He already has. And you're locked up, can't do anything. Chapel_...likes_ pain," Vaughn forced himself to say. He felt a little sick and wasn't sure why. Knowing a horrible truth and saying it out loud can be two very different things, he realized.

"What's to stop Picasso from getting," he began, then stopped, floundering for a word that Bradley would respond to. "From getting _control_ over Chapel?"

Bradley's left eye twitched.

Vaughn sat forward, feeling a chance on the horizon. "Bradley, I need you to tell me where Picasso is. And I need to know _now_."

The seconds ticked by, Bradley worrying his dry, cracked lips with his teeth.

The seconds ticked by and in July, a killer prepared.

Bradley looked up, took a breath, and spoke.

To be continued...

* * *

Up next, The Gauntlet storyline continues. 

Favorite line from this chapter:

_"We're older than we should be."_

_Vash lifted his glass and his eyes to Wolfwood's. "Cheers, partner."_

_Wolfwood lifted his own. "Cheers, kid. Here's to dying young."_


	28. The Gauntlet, Part IV

Warnings: Violence, strong language, slashiness. Not beta-read, as always. I mean, I skimmed it once, but let's get real. Longer than it has rights to be and a little choppy.

The story so far:

Detectives Vash Saverem and Nicholas D. Wolfwood failed to save a girl marked for death by the serial killer known only as Picasso. Wolfwood has received another photograph of a girl and has another chance to stop the killing spree. However, Chief Bennigan's ongoing battle with the detectives may leave them without badges or power to do anything at all. The story continues.

* * *

Part XL:

The Gauntlet, Part IV

* * *

Vash leaned on one arm, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow, tension in every line of his body. Wolfwood lounged, seemingly at ease beside him, arms across his chest and unlit cigarette dangling magically from his lip and God knew who he'd bummed it from. It was a good act. Both of them were staring intently at the man seated behind the wide glass window. Somebody had done a cursory job at bandaging the nasty gash he had near his ear, but otherwise, they'd just let him bleed and brood alone in silence. There were enough cops outside the interrogation room that he'd have a hard time getting anywhere even if he did get out. And Vash and Wolfwood were both sick of the guy. He could stay alone in there for a good long time as far as they cared. It had been one of those days. 

As far as paperwork went, they weren't supposed to be at the station at all.

Wolfwood rubbed at a bruise on his cheek. "Bennigan is going to cause hell over this."

Vash nodded. "He probably already is. The spooks are here."

"Yeah, I saw them sniffing around. They'll take him into custody the minute a loophole lets them. They'll take credit for the whole thing and I can't say I blame them. I probably would in their shoes, too."

"You wouldn't and you know it," Vash countered. "Just when things were looking up, too."

Wolfwood smirked at the idea that this was looking up. Vash was more banged up than the day before and he'd gotten beat down by five officers then. Worse, the minute the paperwork went through, they'd either be stripped of their badges entirely or off the detective unit. Vash hadn't been anything but 'Detective Saverem' in years. He wasn't looking forward to being 'Officer Saverem' again. Wolfwood had been a detective for even longer. The thought of losing his badge was making the lines around his mouth deepen.

"As far as they're concerned this is all cut and dry. Inside information got us the bad guy. Case closed. His prints match those all over the house in Hale Beach. And if he's got a record, we'll dig it up eventually. He could go down for at least 18 counts of manslaughter. This guy could take the fall and Bennigan would be happy to see it happen."

Vash took a slow breath and let it out even slower. "But it's not him," he said.

"No, it's not," Wolfwood agreed.

"Then who the hell is he?"

Wolfwood stood smoothly and adopted Vash's stance, staring at the perp. Through the window, the man was looking straight at them as if the mirrored glass was no obstacle to him. As if he could see them, hear them, know them.

"What I want to know," Wolfwood mumbled around the cigarette, "is why the hell he looks like you. And how the hell we didn't see it before."

* * *

_12 hours earlier_

* * *

The girl was just a little plump and Latino. She had a smile to put the sun to shame. Like the photograph of Linda the day before, her surroundings were common and not very telling. She could have been anywhere from a factory to an airport in her nice navy suit. Her face and the destroyed body of the girl murdered before her ran like a horror movie in his mind from the moment he found the envelope to the moment he pulled into the parking lot. 

Wolfwood came into the station at a run and ignored the shocked expressions on the faces of everyone he met.

"Hey, you still earn a paycheck here?" Midvalley asked with an amused tilt to his lips.

"Later," Wolfwood replied and darted around the corner. Vash was waiting for him in his office—_former office_, he thought to himself—and wasn't it amazing what one bad night could change?

"That's her," Wolfwood said and tossed the folder at his partner. "Tell me what you see."

Vash—dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his chin—only glanced at it. "I don't see anything, partner. You know we probably have another five minutes before Benningan calls us into his office to take our badges. He's fast when he wants to be. We're off the case, I can feel it."

Wolfwood shook his head and kicked the nearest chair leg. "Like hell we are. Picasso sent this to _me_. He's doing it to get _my _attention. I want to hear what _he_ has to say if they pull me off the case."

"Yeah, well, Picasso isn't in charge of this department. We don't have a choice here," Vash said with his hands raised. "This isn't our party. We hand this photo over to whoever they stuck in charge and we go home and lick our wounds."

"That's not you talking." His hangover and fury slurred his words even more than usual. "That's exhaustion. That's booze. That's…hell, I don't know. But it ain't you."

Vash looked at him steadily for a moment then shook his head and dropped his eyes to the floor, rubbing his face roughly. "Okay, okay. So what do we do?"

"We go see Bennigan and show him this before he can fire us." As if it were settled, Wolfwood made for the door.

"Wait, wait," Vash said, stopping him. "If we're going to do this, it's too early for Bennigan. Coffee first."

"Deal. Coffee then Bennigan." Wolfwood slid the photo under his arm. "Let's go."

"Hold it!"

"_Now_ what?"

"The photo...we make a copy first."

Wolfwood raised an eyebrow, prompting Vash to add, "They'll take it from us. You know they will." It just proved to Wolfwood that Vash was thinking just like he was, planning for the worst-case scenario. "Good thinking. We make a copy, have coffee, and then go talk to Bennigan."

"No, no. Coffee, _then_ copy, then Bennigan."

They argued all the way to the coffee machine.

* * *

The television seemed out of place in the barren apartment. It was a drab, personality-less place with white walls and sparse furnishing. But the TV was front and center and he never took his eyes off of it. There was a special report interrupting re-runs of _Cheers_ and it was enough to make him smile, just anticipating _his _appearance. 

He was a handsome guy—an interesting mix between the actors Matt Damon and George Clooney. He wore a suit well and smiled easily. He was charming. He was confident.

He was _not_ the Detective.

_"I'm Agent William Carlisle with the FBI. I'll be heading the Picasso investigation from now on. I can answer any questions you might have."_

Flashbulbs. Questions. An endless stream of questions, none of them telling him what he wanted to know.

He wasn't aware of this grip tightening on the remote until it shattered in his hand. A thick, jagged piece of plastic slipped, caught, and then wedged itself into the tender flesh. It started bleeding immediately, embedded deeply.

_"I want to thank you for your time and for your cooperation. Please contact us at this number if you have any information about this girl or her whereabouts."_

As if he didn't feel it, he pulled the rough shard out and ran for the door.

"Where are you going?"

He turned to the other man, surprised. He had forgotten he was there. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then only shook his head dumbly before hurrying off.

"You said you'd get me out! Stop playing your games with that cop and get me out!" was the shout that chased him out of the building. Blindly, he stumbled down to the street. A big guy in an ugly jacket passed by him.

"Hey, buddy! You all right? You're bleedin' man."

"I'm fine." He broke into a run and didn't stop until he reached the payphone. He'd memorized the number long ago. The Detective answered after two rings.

_"Wolfwood."_

"Why?" he hissed. There was a pause as if the other man were considering not speaking to him at all. And then:

_"Oh, ho, if it isn't you! Well, good morning to you! Killed any innocent girls lately?" _The bitter, seething hatred in Wolfwood's voice was so pure he could almost taste it. There was a sound of something heavy clattering against something else. Then the sound of a drawer sliding open and then shutting abruptly.

"_Why _is that—" and he didn't know what to call him. He was...common. Imperfect. There was no mystery to him, there was _nothing_. "—man heading your investigation?"

_"I'm glad you care so much,"_ Wolfwood spat. _"Suffice it to say that your stunt last night convinced the powers that be that I am not doing my job properly. I got them every major lead they have and they've pulled me off the case. But don't worry, the new guy looks pretty interesting. I'm sure he's got a dark, dirty past you can hold over his head and maybe even a partner you can harass when you're bored. Why don't you fucking try stalking him?"_

Blood dripped down the receiver and he realized he was shaking. "You are still on the case."

_"No, I'm really not. In case you were wondering, what you're hearing is the sound of me clearing out my desk. I get off the premises by noon today, or they throw me out. I needed a vacation any fucking way."_

"You are _still_ on the case," he said slowly.

_"Are you deaf or just stupid? I. Am. Gone. It's thanks to you so sit back and enjoy it. I know you forced all the other detectives off the case, so congratulations: you just got another one. Good job. You win."_

His voice cracked. "You. Are. Still. On. The. Case." The words were panic made into sound.

Wolfwood took a moment to answer. It was as if he was slowly processing everything and not liking what he found, or not certain of what to say about it. _"You really don't have any fucking clue what you want, do you? You forced every detective to retire before me. You tortured their families. You threatened them until they went away. And hey, you got to me, too. You strung my partner up and left him to die. It's over. Go play your games with someone else."_

With that Wolfwood hung up, deaf to Picasso's emphatic, "No."

And Picasso stood with the phone, hurt and bleeding. Oddly, some indistinct pain chocking him dulled the pain from his hand.

* * *

Agent Carlisle was frustrated. In over ten years of service to the FBI he'd rarely felt this frustrated. The larger part of the problem was the large man who seemed hell-bent on blocking him at every turn. 

"I have questions about how this photograph was obtained," he repeated and shook his head in disbelief. He was beginning to feel like a broken record.

"And I've told you: it was sent to the detective in charge of the case before the FBI took over."

"Detective Wolfwood. Yes, I know. What I don't understand is why you aren't allowing me contact with the detective? This would go a lot faster if I could speak with him and Detective Saverem."

"They don't work here anymore. Everything they know is in their files."

Carlisle's pasted on charming smile never wavered, but it was a close thing. "If this girl is going to die by the end of the day, I'd don't have _time_ to read files. None of us do. Are they detectives still on the premises?"

And Bennigan opened his mouth to speak. He never got to.

"Agent Carlisle?" a soft, nervous voice interrupted. Both men turned to the mousy girl standing in the doorway.

"Yes?" Carlisle answered.

"It's...there's a call for you, sir."

"From?"

"It's...it's from Picasso, sir."

Carlisle's face went white as his eyes widened. He ran to the phone in the room that had been sat aside as Grand Central Station for the Picasso case, Bennigan at his heels. He waved frantically at agents, wanting more information right then. "Trace?"

"Working on it, dude," that punk hacker the city had on a leash answered.

"Trevesick, watch it," Bennigan warned. Not for the first time since arriving at this station, Carlisle felt a little out of his depth. He didn't understand how the place functioned at all. Kid hackers, killers who happily called the station at their leisure. The place was a madhouse.

He took the receiver almost cautiously, as if it was a snake coiled to strike. "This is Carlisle. What should I call you?"

_"Call me whatever you want, agent Carlisle. Our acquaintance is going to be very brief." _The man's voice was gentle with a breathiness that somehow made it seem sinister.

Carlisle stood behind the hacker and studied the progress of the trace. The boy turned to him and mouthed, "Cell phone. Nothing."

"I'm not following you, Picasso. Can I call you Picasso?"

_"Listen very carefully. Can you do that for me?"_

"Okay, I'm listening."

_"Then listen to this."_ There was a metallic rattling followed by the sound of fabric rustling. After a pause and what sounded like a grunt of pain, a shaking voice came over the line. It was a sobbing woman. _"Help me please, oh my god, help me!"_

"Where are you? Hello? Are you there? I need you to tell me where you are."

_"I'm afraid she can't tell you anything," _Picasso's voice whispered, cutting off the girl's terrified pleas. _"And I'm also afraid that she'd going to be very, very dead if you don't do exactly what I say."_

Carlisle rubbed his face. "What do you want?"

* * *

A little confused, Wolfwood followed the pretty boy agent out of his office when he came for him. He'd just gotten into the rhythm of packing and didn't appreciate the interruption. He appreciated it even less when a phone was thrust into his hand. 

"What's this?" he asked Carlisle, whose face was stone.

"A call for you. Congratulations, you have your case back."

"What...?"

"Better take it," Carlisle said coldly. Wolfwood's brow furrowed. Everyone in the call center was staring at him. He took the call with a gruff, "Wolfwood."

_"Have you been informed?"_

Wolfwood's jaw clenched and something churned in his gut. "You...how many times do I have to talk to you in a day?"

_"I thought you might thank me. You can finish your investigation now. Everything is back the way it should be."_

Wolfwood felt his pulse thundering in his throat. "What did you do?"

_"I simply bargained with them. They were going to ruin everything."_

"What is he talking about?" he demanded, staring with wide eyes at Carlisle.

Carlisle only turned away, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

"The girl?" Wolfwood asked in a rush of worry.

_"Is alive, for now. And I'm here. Waiting."_

The line went dead and Wolfwood stood holding it, twisted up inside.

* * *

The meeting was of the kind that made Wolfwood's head hurt. He suspected Vash of taking painkillers to avoid the same. Carlisle and two of his agents, Bennigan, Wolfwood and Vash eyed each other warily in the chief's cluttered office. In his own office a box was half packed and he had seen the disaster area Vash's office had become as he sorted through his things. His jaw ached. 

Picasso had officially fucked things up for him in a way that not even Leatherman had. He'd been prepared to investigate this on his own, without or without a badge. He hadn't been prepared to have his strange...whatever it was he had with Picasso aired in front of everyone, FBI included.

Carlisle spoke cautiously whenever he addressed Wolfwood, as if he suspected him of being a ticking time bomb. Based on the bruise on the chief's face, he had every reason to think so. "Picasso wants me off the case, that's fine, but as this has become a federal case, the agency isn't going to pull us back now that we're here."

Vash held up a hand and fought with a facial expression that was half irritation half worry. "I hate to say this, but Picasso isn't joking. He does what he says he's going to do. If you go against his wishes like the chief did the last time, you _will_ have another dead girl on your hands."

Carlisle looked at Bennigan. "What's he talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, 'nothing' if you want to call going against Picasso's instructions and getting a girl killed 'nothing.'" Wolfwood's hand twitched a little, yearning for a cigarette to hold or the proximity to punch Bennigan again.

"He's right, the feds aren't going to back off of this," Bennigan said evenly. "They can stay in the background, stay out of your way unless the need arises. We run this like it's your show, but at the end of the day, they're not going anywhere and we can't _make _them go anywhere. You might as well start calling yourself 'bait' because to the feds, that's what you are. They want Picasso and Picasso wants you around."

Wolfwood stood suddenly. "Tell yourself whatever it takes to help you sleep tonight. But if that girl dies because you fucked up, again, you're the one that's going to have to deal with it." He jerked his head at Vash who came to stand beside him. "I'm only going to say this once. When we go after the girl, you and your people stay back."

With that, he walked out, Vash behind him.

Bennigan crossed his arms and stared at the floor. Carlisle raised his eyebrows at his team and then looked at the frustrated chief. "This isn't going to work, is it? There are too many variables. What is it with Picasso and Wolfwood, anyway?"

Bennigan shook his head. "As far as I can figure and from what I've been told, Picasso has a bad habit of forcing detectives off the case. We've gone through three now. Wait, four? Hell, who can keep track?"

"He forces detectives off the case?"

"You heard me."

Carlisle took a step closer, pieces snapping into place. "Then why is Picasso going out of his way to _keep _Wolfwood around?"

"I wish I knew," Bennigan said. "God I wish I knew."

* * *

Noon came and went. For some terrible reason, the clock was in a hurry. 

Vash felt like he had learned something that only came with experience. Yesterday he'd had a picture of a girl marked to die and he'd used every trick he knew to learn what he could about her. The clothes she wore, the room where she stood. Today, he felt like he knew a whole new set of tricks, as if his eyes knew where to go.

Wolfwood had looked at him for the second time that day, handed him the photo, and said, "Tell me what you see." He knew that he wouldn't let him down. Not today.

"Enlarge this," he said and jabbed his finger onto the already enlarged photo.

"Okay, boss. What about this?"

Vash shook his head. "No. Just _this_. That corner right there."

The cop walked off and Wolfwood jogged up to Vash with an armful of files. "Found something?"

"I'll know when the make it the size of an elephant's—"

"Gotcha," Wolfwood interrupted. "I'm briefing the team in a minute. They get the edited version." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and made his face a question.

Vash set down the photo, grabbed his coffee mug and asked, "Coffee break?"

"Coffee break."

They stepped out onto the roof, steaming cups of coffee in their hands and looked out over July City in full afternoon sunshine. They had six hours of sleep split between them. The ledge made for a nice coffee table and they sat their cups down and then hitched their hips up alongside the coffee. They settled down like war veterans, a little old and a lot tired.

"Picasso," Wolfwood said and then fell silent. Unconsciously, Vash rubbed at his right wrist with his left hand. The scars from what Picasso had done to him still hadn't healed completely. Picasso and whoever he was working with, they'd strung him up and left him to die. They were monsters.

"What happened in that club last night?"

Wolfwood shook his head. "I don't know myself. I went in and the scene was clean. I mean...I _felt_ like he was there, but he was keeping his word. I had time left. I was canvassing the room, checking the exits, the whole routine. Then everything went still. Everything, everyone. Except…no, not everyone."

"The people who ran out first?"

"Yeah, they weren't affected by whatever it is he does. It was like they were immune. I figured it was because they were all nearby me, you know? Something about proximity."

Vash looked thoughtful. "It must have been deliberate. From what you say, he has amazing control over that power of his. It had to have been deliberate. I mean, it _had_ to have been, right?"

"I dunno. I really don't. Maybe we're just missing something."

"You said you spoke?"

Wolfwood looked out over the city almost nervously. "I got backed into a corner and he was there. It was like he was waiting for me. We got a little more cuddly than I was hoping for."

"Cuddly? Hrmph. Did he kiss you, too?"

Wolfwood tried to crack a smile to match Vash's mischievous one, but failed. "Nah, he saves all those for you."

When he ran a hand through his blond spikes, Vash looked almost boyish. "Actually, the one he gave me was _technically _for you."

Wolfwood looked at him steadily. "Yeah, but you still haven't passed it on to me."

Vash paused, swallowed. "Guess I haven't." He blinked once, and then didn't look away. "Remind me to when all of this is over."

With a wistful expression on his face, Wolfwood dropped his eyes to his feet. "I'll do that," he said.

They finished their coffee over business-as-usual talk. They were on borrowed time and it was slipping away.

* * *

Kaite looped the recording again and waited. Wolfwood had his eyes closed and his head turned to the side, listening intently. Off in the corner, Carlisle watched, an oddly bitter expression on his face. It was probably due to the fact that the kid hadn't given him an inch since he showed up, but seemed prepared to give Wolfwood miles. 

"What's that?" Wolfwood asked. "Back up a bit."

Picasso's melodious voice filled the room again. _"Put Detective Wolfwood back on the case now, or this girl is dead..."_

Wolfwood pointed excitedly. "That right there. It was...traffic. But there was something else. Like a horn. And something else under that. What is that?"

_"You still have until midnight. If you can find her, she lives. I have one stipulation: if anyone but Detective Wolfwood comes for her, she dies. If the FBI or his partner get in the way, she dies..."_

Kaite looped the sample once again. "I think that sound's in here one other time. Different recording..."

_"I'm here. Waiting."_

A few more switches were flipped by Kaite's thin fingers. "Watch the graph. It spikes right here and...here."

"Regular, even." Wolfwood shook his head. "That background sound, is it just traffic or something else?"

Kaite shrugged. "It could be the wind."

Wolfwood's mouth dropped open and he stared at the young, dark-haired man. "No...no...not wind. Kaite, you're a genius."

"Yo, thanks boss man." He scratched his head. "What'd I do?"

"It's water. If you amp up that sound, it'll be water. That horn is from a freighter. He's on the bridge."

"The bridge?" Carlisle asked from across the room. Kaite cut a glare at him as he walked closer. "Hands off," he said. "This case ain't yours unless you want the girl dead."

"I haven't forgotten. But I am still assisting with this investigation."

"It's okay, Kaite," Wolfwood said and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He turned to Carlisle. "Yeah, the most I can figure is that he made the call from Memorial Bridge. It's a major bridge connecting us to Hale Beach. There's no other place nearby that gets a mix of water, traffic, and fog horns."

Kaite clapped his hands together. "It makes sense, yo. It explains why I couldn't get a trace on that call. There aren't enough towers for triangulation over there. It's a communication dead zone. Like, for real."

"If he was there when he made the calls, he might not be there now," Carlisle said.

Wolfwood opened his mouth to tell him...something. To tell him that Picasso was playing a game for two and that it was his—Wolfwood's—move. He opened his mouth to tell him a million things about over a year and a half of circling around the same man, watching the terrible things he could do and getting tangled up in his dark imagination. About obsession and certainty. Instead he said, "I know that, but it's all we've got." And it was a lie, but it kept him from having to say a truth that got uglier by increments.

* * *

Vash stared at the enlarged picture in silence. The crew of tech geeks behind him looked on nervously. 

"You know that scene in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' where Indiana Jones comes face to face with that snake? Well if you look close enough, you can see the glass dividing him from the snake. There's a reflection. He was never in any danger at all." He pushed his blond spikes back and then tapped the picture. "That's what this is. It's a picture taken through glass. And this corner here is the reflection in the window."

"A reflection of what?" a young cop asked.

"Good question. It's a piece of construction equipment. And see here, this is a reflection in the glass of _that_ bulldozer's window."

"A photograph of a reflection of a reflection?" a scratchy, accented voice asked from the door.

Vash nodded, but didn't turn around. "Hiya, partner. How long have you been there?"

"Long enough? You got a lead for me?"

"Yep, it's tiny, but it's solid because a reflection of a reflection isn't a reflection anymore, is it? This bulldozer was sitting right in front of the store window. That blur is the sign above the door."

"What's it say?"

"It's a Do Right Electronics. You find me one with construction going on—or one that had construction within the past year—and we might be able to find out who she is."

Wolfwood signaled at Vash's team. "You heard the man. Get me a list of every Do Right Electronics in the city—and Hale Beach, too—and tell me which one had construction nearby. You have half an hour."

They scuttled off hurriedly, leaving Vash and Wolfwood to stare at the collection of photos Vash had ordered since the case was returned to them.

Vash crossed his arms. "Okay, that's my end of things, what do _you _have?"

"You've got a lead on who she is, I've got a lead on where she was. He has her at the Memorial Bridge." He pulled a map from his pocket and handed it over.

"What's he doing _there_?"

"Hell if I know. It's weird, Vash. It was almost too easy. It was like…like he wanted to be found."

Vash sighed. "For all we know, that's _exactly_ what he wanted."

* * *

They'd sent Midvalley to the Do Right on Clarke because Vash said if the guy wanted a chance to prove himself, why not give it to him? Wolfwood had agreed. The beat cop called a little later, sounding confident. 

_"She didn't work here, but she applied. The manager remembered her. Her name is Maria Estevez. I sent a unit over to her apartment. The landlady hasn't seen her in two days and her car is missing."_

Wolfwood juggled the phone and reached for a pen and paper. "Give us the info on that car?"

_"Light green Volkswagen Beetle. The new kind. Need the plates?"_

"Yeah, hit me." He scribbled the numbers and handed the paper to Vash. "Gotcha. We'll get on these. See if you can find an address book in her apartment. Maybe her relatives and friends can tell us something. Hell, if she's got them. Oh, and Midvalley?"

_"Yeah?"_

"Good job."

_"T-thank you."_

Wolfwood hung up and only shrugged at his partner's questioning expression. "Hey, I give credit where credit's due."

Vash finished a doughnut and licked his fingers. "Since when? Anyway, I'm going to send these down the wire, see if anybody's seen this car."

"Thanks." He watched Vash as he left his office, mind working through what they knew and what it could get them. A second later, his cell phone rang.

"Wolfwood," he answered.

_"Detective Wolfwood? Oh, thank god,"_ an anxious voice replied.

"I'm not sure you can call me 'Detective' anymore."

_"W-what? I don't understand."_

"Long story. Who is this?"

_"We met not too long ago. I'm Dr. Steven Vaughn. I work at Santa Rosa, the prison in May City, and I have something to tell you. It's about Bradley Monev, the Leatherman."_

Wolfwood sat up straight in his chair. "What about him?"

When Vash returned to the room with a computer printout in his hand, Wolfwood was staring straight ahead, lost in thought.

"Earth to Wolfwood, what's the matter?"

"We need to move. Now."

"As in, 'Move out with units'?"

"Yes. No. Either."

Surrender style, Vash's hands went up. "Okay, what exactly happened between when I went to run those plates and now?"

"I know where he is."

The printouts fell from Vash's fingers. "Say that again."

"We've got him, Vash. Monev talked."

"I'll be a..." His eyes suddenly sharpened. "Well then, what are we still doing here?"

* * *

Daylight had slipped away and evening was upon them. 

They found Estevez's car abandoned at a convenience store less than five miles from the bridge. Wolfwood and Vash discussed in low voices the car that had been seen earlier that day, around the time that Estevez had come in to fill up. The surveillance tape from the parking lot showed Estevez walking in to pay, walking out—towards her car—and then suddenly veering off towards the street. Unfortunately, the suspicious car was off frame.

"I've seen this before," Wolfwood said, eyes glued on the screen. "At the club. She's not in control of her own body. _This_ is when he took her."

"He's had her for hours. That poor girl," Vash said, looking at the time display at the bottom of the store's monitor.

"But we know where she is."

Vash's eyes narrowed. "You think he'll be waiting for you again? Watching?"

"Yeah. That's the whole point of this, isn't it?"

Vash looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he stood quietly and went to speak with the flustered store manager.

Back at the station, preparations were in order and the way things were going to unfold had already been decided. Most of it didn't sit well with Wolfwood. Carlisle and Bennigan had given him a strict timeline, one he couldn't argue against.

"If we don't like how things are going, we'll move in. If we lose contact with you for longer than ten minutes, we'll move in. We're keeping you on a very short leash here, Wolfwood. We don't want a repeat of last night."

Both Vash and Wolfwood fought to keep their angry retorts to themselves. Now was not the time to point out that Bennigan was to blame for the tragedy.

"Gotcha," Vash said, staring out the window.

"After you get the girl—or if you _fail_ to get the girl—we're sending in everything we've got. I'm talking S.W.A.T., sharpshooters, you name it. If we can take him down tonight, we'll take him down. Understood?"

This time it was Wolfwood who replied in a bored tone, "You won't."

"Excuse me?" Carlisle asked indignantly.

"You heard me. You won't take him down tonight. We've got a chance to save the girl, but Picasso will have an escape already worked out. He's doing this to watch, to learn, to satisfy his curiosity. He's not in this to get caught."

Carlisle crossed his arms. "What is it with you two? He only wants _you_ trying to arrest him. And from what I understand, he's doing all of this because you've somehow become a part of his routine. It's like he can't function without you. And _you_, you talk about him like you know him. Like you _understand _him."

The room went silent and all eyes turned to Wolfwood. It was as if everyone present was looking at him in a new light. Wolfwood caught Vash's equally curious, concerned expression and held it as he answered.

"I do," he said, but is voice was surprised, as if he had just come to realize the truth himself. "I...do."

Vash dropped his eyes to the floor and Bennigan cleared his throat. Carlisle continued to stare at Wolfwood with a suspicious glint in his eye. He changed subjects clumsily.

"I understand that you'll be following a tip? You know where Picasso lives?"

Vash and Wolfwood exchanged a glance and both took deep breaths. They spent the next part of the meeting explaining to Carlisle their belief that Picasso was not working alone, and their strategy for approaching the location where he was supposed to be hiding. Bennigan contradicted them at every turn.

"We have no _solid _proof to say that he _isn't working_ alone, Agent Carlisle. I'm _allowing_ them to follow this lead because some of what we've been able to turn up about that building checks out. And maybe the girl is there, who knows?"

"The girl is at the bridge," Wolfwood said.

"We can't know that for sure, and anyway..." Bennigan launched into another tirade that was both endless and spiteful.

Wolfwood looked as if he had stopped listening to the man hours ago. He turned to his partner. "Coffee Break?"

"Yeah, I could use one of those." Vash gave a thin smile and explained cordially to the other men, "I think we've settled everything that needs to be settled, don't you? We'll be moving out within the hour."

Saying that, the two of them left the chief and federal agent in stunned silence.

Vash couldn't help but remember all the times, good and bad, he'd met his partner on the roof to talk. Now was just another brainstorm session, but it felt far too much like the last one ever. He cast a furtive glance at Wolfwood and then spoke softly.

"So we'll have to split up. Again. And it's already decided: you'll have to go after the girl, which leaves me to stake out that address you got from Vaughn."

Wolfwood's reply was a grunt, making his partner smile a half smile. "Hey, you can't keep an eye on me all the time."

"Like hell I can't."

Vash smiled ruefully. "You can't. Besides, I know that part of town. Hey, don't look at me like that. I know it better than _you_, anyway. If Blondie's there, I'll find him. I won't make the same mistake twice."

"You better not. You're running out of space on your face for more bruises."

"Har, har," Vash said, though he unconsciously rubbed at the scar above his eye. "I'm taking Midvalley. He's stuck with this from beginning to end. I want to keep encouraging him. He's young, I think he's got a chance to do good for himself."

"All right. Give him a chance." He shrugged. "I don't have a choice who's coming with me. They might just send the entire police force."

"Are you in any kind of shape to be doing this?"

"I hurt like hell. The criminal element has _amazing_ timing. Just amazing." Wolfwood said, as if participating in a different conversation entirely, or maybe just complaining along with the demons in his head. He reached for a cigarette. When he started patting his pockets madly, Vash couldn't help but laugh.

"You're out."

"Son of a bitch," Wolfwood cursed and kept patting pockets as if he expected a cigarette to appear for him if he showed it that he was a persistent, optimistic guy.

Vash gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and moved around him to the door leading back down into the station.

"Hey, Vash?"

"Hmmm?" he asked, turning back.

"Just...try to be more careful this time," he said and pointed at the still ugly wound on Vash's forehead.

"Yeah." Vash smiled. "Yeah. I will."

* * *

Memorial Bridge. 

What struck him first about the place were the shadows. They crossed each other and formed a disorienting grid, like a patchwork quilt of dark and light. He pulled his piece, and found the stairs leading up from the sandy banks to the labyrinthine supports below the street. It was not an easy place to get to and he slipped on the slick rocks washed up onto the shore. At the foot of the steps, he turned and looked out over the blue-black water, at the city lights reflected on the surface and the festive boats floating easily, decorated still in patriotic colors from the holiday.

The street itself was empty, blocked off on either end by a team of cops and federal agents he wished would go away. But Carlisle had made himself clear: one way or another, they were going for an arrest tonight. Thinking about that made him wonder how Vash was doing, checking out a lead that could just be another of Picasso's traps or tricks.

He took the steps up, seeing that it led to a maintenance access. Here the darkness was impenetrable, the sound of the waves and shouts from barge to barge sounding distant and out of place.

His foot scraped on the rusting metal floor and he had to duck to avoid a support beam.

"Chapel," a whispered voice said. It carried on the wind and seemed unearthly, vaporous and mystical. He couldn't place its origin. "I thought I'd lost you."

He straightened and tried to pierce the dark with eyes that felt heavy and slow from exhaustion. "Where's the girl? I need to see that she's safe."

"Here."

A flash of movement to his left made him shift on his heels. The girl, Maria Estevez, staggered forward, eyes covered and wrists bound. She whimpered around the gag over her mouth.

"My name is Nicholas Wolfwood, I'm with the police. I'm here to help. Are you all right? Shake your head 'no' if you're injured."

She nodded yes, but her whimpers increased, her shaking body begging for help. Picasso remained hidden, but his voice sounded from behind the girl.

"Here we are again," he said. The voice was so familiar now, but still disquieting. "You're alone this time, but I can see _them_. You have me surrounded. Are you trying to kill her?"

"No! Listen, I didn't have a choice. Yes, you're blocked in, but what did you expect? I'm not really on this case anymore. They're using me as bait and you know it. Let the girl go, surrender, and you might get out of here. As it is, there is no other way off this bridge."

Wolfwood ducked under another support beam that angled over his head. The awkward motion gave him a better angle on the girl. He had already considered and rejected half a dozen plans to free her. The situation seemed impossible. He'd just have to play this out and see what Picasso was going to do.

"It was raining."

"W-what?" Pausing, he shook his head at the shadows behind the girl.

"The first time I saw you, it was raining. I couldn't breathe. I knew something...beyond me at that moment."

Wolfwood felt everything in his chest sink down, like he'd swallowed lead. The girl kept trembling and her cries were endless. Suddenly, from the shadows, a form emerged, encircling Maria Estevez in his arms. Tall, thin and wearing dark colors, Picasso stood real and before his eyes for the first time. Though shadows still obscured most of his figure and features, the barest hint of light revealing his nose and lips. He was pale like alabaster. The girl gave a whimper in his arms.

Fighting down fears, Wolfwood approached slowly with his hands raised. "Listen to me. We have exactly ten minutes. That's all. In ten minutes, the cops and feds waiting in every direction are not going to wait anymore and this place will be swarming with them. Let's not do anything stupid. They don't need to storm in here, do they? Let's just be cool."

"Don't treat me like any other criminal, Detective," he spat. "Don't try to talk to me like I'm part of any ordinary day, just another case."

Wolfwood licked his lips nervously and took another step. "I know you're not," he said. "I've seen what you can do. I've been on this case long enough. I know you're different."

"Stop," Picasso said. "Not another step."

Wolfwood took another step. "Come on, let her go. Believe me, you've got my attention. She's not important anymore. The two of us, we matter, right?"

He swallowed and tried to make his heart slow down. "We don't need her here at all, do we? She served her purpose: we're together. I have questions I want to ask you. I have _a lot_ of questions. Don't you want to talk? _Really _talk? Not on the phone, but face to face? Just the two of us? Come on, this could be the only chance we get. Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? Let her go and let's go somewhere. Anywhere."

The following silence was deadly, like poison slowly reaching the heart, turning everything still and tense.

"Nice try," Picasso said and there was a snarl in his voice. "I'm not a fool, and you're too late."

The girl started to shake. She screamed.

"Wait!" Wolfwood darted forward only to stop short, fearful that his actions would endanger the girl further. "I have time left! I made it on time! You said you'd spare her if I found her in time. I've done everything you asked of me."

"Too bad, Detective. The rules changed. You're not in charge here."

Wolfwood dropped his head and in a voice so quiet he imagined the night and the black water swallowed it said, simply, "Please. If you...If I...please."

The screaming stopped, but there was no sound of bones smashing, no terrible sound of skin ripping apart. Wolfwood looked up. The girl was on her knees, crying. The shadows behind her moved.

"This isn't over," Picasso hissed his voice retreating into the dark. Wolfwood nodded.

"I know," he whispered. There were footsteps, hurrying through the sand and mud-swamped supports below. He didn't know how far Picasso thought he was going to get. He didn't want to know what would happen to the guys who tried to stop him.

* * *

Vash no longer humored any ideas that said eleven units was overkill. With Picasso, there was no such thing as too much. They had stretched the department's resources to the bare minimum and taken advantage of the new federal involvement to pull off both operations. Fighting a battle on two fronts again, just like when they'd gone to the hotels in Hale Beach and Ray Hawthorn's home. The last time, a lot of cops—himself included—had been hurt. He prayed that nothing like that would happen tonight. He was worried about Wolfwood. 

Keeping up constant radio contact, he had the units position themselves at every conceivable way out. They blocked every side street, alley, and major exit that could possibly offer a way out. Every entrance and exit to the building were taken care of.

Vash unsnapped his holster and placed a hand on his piece, staring worriedly at the view before him, the dark building possibly housing one, or both, of the men who had made life so terrible for so many people. There was no guarantee that anyone was there, especially with the evidence showing the man they were after was on the bridge with the girl. But if Vash's theory proved true and there was more than one suspect, they couldn't afford to lose this chance to catch him. They had to do this tonight.

The building was not empty by any means, nor was it glamorous. Other equally derelict buildings were crowded in around it. The idea that anyone could live in a place like this was an uncomfortable one, yet lights blazed from windows through dirty blinds and curtains. Sometimes the faces of strangers peeked out from behind them, looking down at him. They disappeared soon after and their lights went off hastily. It was that kind of place, where anyone who wasn't doing something illegal knew someone who was. Picasso, Vash thought, would fit in so well here. Nobody would turn him in because they themselves didn't want the cops hanging around.

Units, led my Midvalley, entered the building, and a small eternity passed as Vash waited outside with the remaining forces.

His radio exploded with the sound of a frenzied, breathless Midvalley.

_"He is on the move. Repeat: suspect is on the move. He's going out the side. We are in pursuit."_

Shouting out orders, Vash moved fluidly around the side of the building. With a loud crash, the side door flew open. The officers at Vash's back shouted, "Freeze!" Their guns were unwavering, but they weren't ready for the speed their quarry displayed. The man, blonde hair short and a tousled, vaulted over the railing and landed in a graceful crouch. Blondie, Vash thought. The perp known as Ray Hawthorn. He was faster than he had been the last time they met when he'd been rattled from a car crash; he darted away into the shadows easily. Vash was already in pursuit by the time the officers came streaming out of the building. Hawthorn, hearing the clamor behind him, stopped and turned, but only the whites of his eyes caught the glare from the streetlight.

Then he was off again, barely avoiding a bullet as it passed over his head.

"Watch your aim! I want him alive!" Vash yelled over his shoulder. He squinted through the dark at Hawthorn's retreating back. Rounding the corner at a dead run, the heels of his shoes scuffed hard against the pavement. He slipped on the exit but caught himself on one hand. He winced when the skin tore open on gravel, but he kept running.

And yeah, Hawthorn was fast, but Vash was faster.

He got the runner in the back with his shoulder and they came tumbling down.

The struggle on the ground was brutal with desperation. The runner took a blow to the side of his head that made him grunt. Vash got a foot in his hip when the Hawthorn kicked back, but he wouldn't let go. It took a gamble, but he finally got his arms behind his back and pinned. A bit of maneuvering and he had him in cuffs.

Too exhausted to do more than breathe from where he sat, straddling the other man's back, it took a minute to shift and roll the guy over. The guy was glaring at him. Familiar eyes twisted into a look of distilled hatred.

Vash's mouth fell open and he struggled back and away.

He and Wolfwood had plastered the city with this guy's face. He'd looked at it every day for over a week. Why had he never seen it before?

Identical expressions of shock flitted across both men's faces as they stared at each other. They stayed that way until the other officers arrived.

* * *

Bennigan paced around his office. He had the air of a man who wanted to be somewhere else, smoking. Instead, he kept himself busy as he walked. He looked at the windows, picked up a stray piece of trash from off his grubby floor. 

Half an hour before, he'd had a tense meeting with Wolfwood, Carlisle, and the officers who had been stationed on the Hale Beach side of the bridge. He'd wanted answers and none had been forthcoming.

"What do you _mean_," he had asked through clenched teeth, "that you couldn't move?"

A captain with years of experience and a stellar record had passed his hat from one hand to the next nervously. "Just that, sir. None of us could move. I couldn't control my body. He...he just walked right past us."

Bennigan had taken a deep breath that had failed to do any good at all. "And you didn't see his face?"

"I didn't see anything," he'd whispered apologetically. "It was so dark."

Wolfwood had crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the floor. He hadn't even looked up when Bennigan had turned his anger towards him.

"And you, _Detective _Wolfwood, you got the girl from him, but you didn't see _anything_?"

"He stayed in the shadows. And before you ask, Maria Estevez was bound the entire time. Here eyes were _covered_ and she was attacked from behind. She can't give you a description."

He'd slammed his hand into his desk so hard that the wood splintered and slivers of it stuck in his skin. That meeting had done nothing but send his blood pressure up to astronomical levels. Now here he was, trying to salvage what he could of a bad situation. Sitting patiently in a chair before his large desk, Meryl Strife looked small and nervous. She watched him weave his way around the room, phone pressed to his ear.

His voice, when he spoke, was a little too high, like he was fighting giddiness and fear all at once.

"If he's in the system, we'll find him. Those prints? Yeah, we have them on record. From that house in Hale Beach. It's in that report. Yes, I sent you _all _of it. No, that was Saverem's team. Yes, _Detective_ Saverem. No, _that _was Wo_...Detective _Wolfwood's investigation. Yes, sir. Yes. We have photographs of him with two of the victims, and he was caught fleeing the scene an informant identified as the mailing address of Picasso. No, _tha_t information came from...I _did _bust my ass for this investigation. Sorry, sir. Listen, that's not important. We have him, that's all that matters. We have Picasso."

He rubbed his face with his big, calloused hands. "We've got the bastard."

* * *

_Now_

* * *

Outside his office, hearing only every third word, Wolfwood and Vash both found ways to kill time while they waited. Wolfwood crossed his arms and drummed his fingers. Vash jiggled his knee. 

Finally, Bennigan gruffly ordered them into his office. They were a little surprised to see Officer Strife from PR already present when they arrived. Vash greeted her and tried to make conversation, but Bennigan's gruff voice cut him off.

"Congratulations, boys," he said and sat on the corner of his desk. "Carlisle is interrogating him right now and it looks like you got the bad guy."

Wolfwood and Vash exchanged a glance. "We got _one_ of them, sir," Vash said.

Bennigan went very still. "No, you got _him_. You got Picasso. Like I said: congratulations."

Vash's mouth fell open while Wolfwood clenched his hands at his sides. It was his second meeting with the man in as many hours and his mood hadn't improved any. "Chief, you read that report we sent—" Wolfwood tried. Bennigan gingerly touched his purple cheek and glared at him.

"Funny, I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

The staring match was intense enough to make Vash step forward, always the peacekeeper. His stretched his arm across Wolfwood's chest, keeping him from taking another swing at his superior.

"As far as this department is concerned, you have Picasso. As far as the mayor is concerned, you have Picasso. As far as the goddamn _governor _is concerned, you have Picasso."

Muscles jumped and flexed at Wolfwood's jaw. "He's still out there."

"No, _he's _not. Four years of terror are over for the city. You'll be heroes,"—he paused to push up the sleeves of his shirt—"unless you cross me. You'll both get nice farewell parties, full honors. Considering what you've put me through, that's nothing to cough at."

"You're...you're joking," Wolfwood said quietly. "Fire us or whatever, but we can't have a fucking party while that killer runs the streets!"

Meryl jumped five feet backwards and almost stumbled when Bennigan's meaty hands slammed onto his desk so hard the legs groaned. "You have _no _say in the running of this department from now on. I took you on even with the less than pristine record you've got, the lies you stuff down everybody's throats and expect us to fucking take. You and your damn partner!

"Forrester Henry, your former chief, had nothing but praise for you and you _do_ get the job done. Yeah, you catch the wackos, but you two are walking disasters. I want this whole mess over with, something that won't happen as long as we're out their chasing a phantom killer that only _you_ believe exists."

"If you compare the voice on that recording with Hawthorn's you'll see you've got two different guys here. Lean on him a little in interrogation and he'll spill. He had an accomplice."

"Not to mention that Hawthorn was apprehended on the other side of town from where Nick saved that girl! At nearly the _same_ time."

"The evidence is there," Wolfwood added.

"And we will go public, Chief," Vash said quietly. "Just a warning."

"I knew you would, which is why _she's _here. Officer Strife has ensured that you are poison to any reporter who contacts you. If they value their insider information, they won't come near you. Any reporter who talks to you knows they'll never work again."

"We'll find someone," Vash countered and looked to Meryl where she sat, unnerved and tense. "The city isn't safe so long as he's out there."

Meryl looked torn between her duty to the department, and her desire to help two cops who had done nothing but good for the city. "Detectives—" she began, but Bennigan cut her off.

"If my city's not safe, _we'll _take care of it. No hotshot specialists from May. Homegrown July City cops are going to clean up the mess _you_ left. You. Are. Dismissed."

Wolfwood made to lunge for the man again and Vash looked like he might let him. Instead, he put a firm hand on his shoulder and propelled him to the door. Over his shoulder he asked, "What will happen to Hawthorn?"

Benningan huffed, "I'm only telling you to shut you up. The feds are taking him. Looks like you caught a bigger fish than you ever could have known. He's got connections to shit too big for our little department. Carlisle can have him and good fucking riddance."

The door shut on that exclamation and the former partners were left outside the door, cut off, alone.

* * *

Time had a funny way of passing. Before they knew it, days had gone by. Everything from their walking orders to the solemn handing over of their badges had been handled discreetly. 

In the history of bad days, this was pretty high on the list for Vash. The day he'd found his friend and mentor in a pool of his own blood, chained in a dirty factory and drugged out of his mind still had today beat, but it was pulling a close second. Or third, right behind the day he'd first had to kill a man in the line of duty.

Or maybe fourth since there _was_ that day he'd been crucified and kissed by a psycho...

Vash's thoughts, as he redid all the unpacking he had just undone days ago, went like this. A little jumbled, a little crazy. Unsurprisingly, they were a little dark, too.

He was mad, but didn't have the spirit in him to show it. Instead, he looked tired and drained. The stapler he found under his desk might have belonged to Jesus for all he knew. It certainly wasn't his. He threw it into the box anyway.

He didn't know where his partner was, but assumed he was in his own office doing the same thing. And then it was time to go.

Outside his _former _office, the department fell suddenly quiet. The ones who could stand to look him in the eye looked about as down as he felt.

"Detective," they said and more than a few of them saluted.

"Honor serving with you, sir," an old beat cop said clearly and shook his hand. He had to wedge the box under one arm, but he shook right back.

"I'll see you around. I still know where the bar is."

"You're on."

"This is a load of crap," Midvalley said. Vash only held out his hand. "I'm not worried about this place," he said. He shook his head meaningfully. "Not at all. You take care of it for us, okay? The detective test is soon."

"Sir," Midvalley answered.

Vash moved on and kept his head up because it's what he'd been taught. Down did _not _mean out. Down didn't mean much of anything as far as Vash knew. It was the place you went while you worked and waited for up to swing back around.

Up decided to pay him a visit before the light bulb in his former office had even cooled.

"Are you Detective Vash Saverem?" someone with a deep, articulated voice asked, stopping him in the hallway near the elevators.

Vash turned towards the voice and found himself facing a spook. An FBI suit with all the fixings. He might as well have addressed Vash as "Mr. Anderson" and then multiplied into an identical army all while dodging bullets in delayed time.

Vash bit his cheek to keep from saying all of this aloud.

"That's just Vash Saverem, I'm afraid. I don't even have a badge anymore."

"Ah, yes, we heard," the man said and stuck out his hand. "I'm with the FBI. My name is—"

And Vash was chanting, _Don't say 'Smith', don't say 'Smith'_, over and over in his head to the point where he almost missed the man say, "Scanlon."

"Agent Scanlon?" he repeated to cover his distraction and to double-check just in case he really was dealing with a deadly computer program.

"Yes, we're here because of your case, actually. And it was just as well that things went down like they did. We end up benefiting this way. You won't come out half bad, either."

Vash frowned and shifted the box under his arm. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

Scanlon's smile was razor sharp and shiny white. He flipped out a card. "Mr. Saverem, have you ever considered what you could do for your country?"

* * *

Thanks for popping in. 

Up Next: Endings.


	29. Endings, Part I

Warnings: Violence, slashiness, adult language, yoinkage from the film "The Watcher." Abuse of canon for my own selfish agenda. 

The story so far:

When Wolfwood abandoned his routine to go to the city of May and question Leatherman about the Picasso case, Picasso lashed out in anger, killing over a dozen people at a club. His actions forced Wolfwood to return to July. Currently, Vash and Wolfwood have used their last chance with the July City Police, finally capturing the man known only as Ray Hawthorn and saving a kidnapped girl in a massive operation. They lost their badges for their success and the city is being deceived into believing Picasso was only one man. In a bizarre twist, Hawthorn looks remarkably like Vash. Furthermore, the FBI has a keen interest in him. Perhaps he's more than what he seems. They have also expressed a similar interest in a newly jobless Vash…

The story continues.

* * *

Part XLI:

Endings, Part I

* * *

_Click, hiss, buzz. Click, buzz. Click, buzz. Fizzzzzzzzz._

"Rhonda! Set's actin' up agin."

"Hold your horses, and eat your eggs, you old codger."

"I'm hard of hearin', not deaf! I heard ya!"

Slam, slam._ Fizzzzz. _

SLAM

_"This is your news at 6:00. I'm Randall Carter."_

"There, happy?"

"Good, Lord, woman. Did ya have to hit it?"

"Fixed, ain't it?"

_"In a terrifying case that has had the eyes of the nation turned on the city of July, a woman was rescued by a joint federal, JCPD operation at the Memorial Bridge late last night. Here we can see 22-year-old Maria Estevez with her family at a press conference held earlier today. Estevez was abducted outside a convenience store, blindfolded and gagged until police located her and subdued the culprit. Sources from inside the force are saying that the reign of terror is over: Picasso, the serial killer responsible for at least eighteen deaths and possibly as many as fifteen more, has finally been arrested. It appears as if thanks are owed to specialists brought in from the city of May, Detectives Vash Saverem and Nicholas D. Wolfwood, though this remains unconfirmed. Many may recall a similar arrest that made headline news three years ago: the serial killer known as Leatherman who terrorized the city of May, is also reported to have been captured by these decorated detectives. Police Commissioner Michael Evergreen is quoted as saying—"_

And so on and on the electronic chatter went. He sat in a diner, a perfectly innocuous setting. He'd ordered coffee—plenty of sugar and cream—and a large plate of pancakes drizzled in syrup. He didn't touch them. He only listened because the world seemed to have been reduced to sound. The chaos of his mind kept him from seeing properly at all.

The creak of the chairs nearby, the old man arguing with the tired woman behind the counter endlessly. The absence of a voice. A particular voice he had, perhaps, taken for granted.

He was out of places to go. The police were swarming everywhere, like flies.

Knives was gone. Arrested, taken, lost to them all.

And he tried to think of this loss reasonably. He tried to think of it as what it was: a terrible, terrible thing. Something that would perhaps haunt him later. He even tried to think of the number of people who would be affected by such a loss.

Instead he thought of the detective. Of his pleading voice at the bridge last night. Of his thinly-veiled offer.

_"Don't you want to talk? Really talk? Not on the phone, but face to face? Just the two of us? Come on, this could be the only chance we get. Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? Let her go and let's go somewhere. Anywhere."_

And it had been a lie. Of course it had been. No matter how sincere it had sounded, it hadn't been. He knew because he knew that Chapel was the greatest liar he'd ever seen. He did it so well, so prettily. He'd lied to everyone, after all. Even his partner didn't know the full extent of what he was. Nor did he, for that matter.

Still, in a buried, quiet part of him, he knew...he'd wanted it to be true. He imagined the offer as what it might have led to, humoring the thought just long enough so that it would be easy to hide away again. What if he had said, "Yes" and they had gone somewhere? _Anywhere._

Where would they have gone? What would they have done? What, indeed.

There was a sudden, shocking wavering recollection in his mind. A dirty club. Black hair, blue eyes, a nose just a tad too large for his long face. Tall and lean and dressed in black that caressed him like a lover. One who fit the bill.

He'd killed that boy that night because, after all, he hadn't truly fit the bill. He'd been too young and too cheap and, more than anything, flawed. But before he'd torn into his body and left him in pieces, there had been the almost kiss.

Almost, for their lips had never met.

Instead, the boy had leaned forward, pressed his lips against his jaw and trailed them down. Then he'd opened his mouth and sucked rhythmically, caressed sensitive skin with his wet, wet tongue. The boy's hands had slid under his shirt, tickling along his ribs and then down lower and lower. He'd cupped the front of his slacks in one hand, massaged him.

There had been nothing about that boy that night to arouse him. But what if things had been different when he'd killed so many in rage? When he'd been so careless?

What if that poor, doomed boy had been the right age? What if his voice had been smoke-scarred and lazy-tongue-accented instead of July-city-crisp? What if his eyes had known a million different kinds of pain and sacrifice instead of just the bliss of drugs and cheap sex? What if his body had told the story in scars like tattoos everywhere? And what if he'd had blood on his hands that men like him could smell because they had it too?

In short, what if he had been the real thing?

He stood suddenly from the stool, tossed the money onto the counter and ran.

"Darlin' you're too skinny not to eat!" the waitress cried after him.

The bells above the door clanged fiercely with the force he tore through and the sound dogged his steps. He kept running, down the street, away, anywhere.

But he couldn't get away because it was all in his head.

Skin. Scarred skin under his tongue and black hair through his fingers. He ducked into an alley, leaned back heavily against the grubby wall, breathing like all the oxygen in the world was fleeing from him.

Like he was fleeing. From a fantasy. From...just what _was_ it?

Arched back, white teeth, and finally, lips against his, moving, soft and dry and tobacco flavored. Clothing gone. A world gone, the one that said, "Impossible, impossible."

All gone leaving this. Just _this_.

He screamed and his fists smashed back into the brick of the building behind him.

No.

Not this.

He dropped his head, breathing raggedly.

So here was the truth, the terrible truth that would destroy them both.

He had few choices: fight it, or let it overcome him. And if he let that happen—if he couldn't fight it after all—he decided that he'd take the cause and the cure with him. Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood would understand that he suffered.

And suffer with him.

* * *

He checked in, found himself frisked, passed by numerous guards and saw still more up ahead, all before he made it past the lobby. Sometimes the JCPD did things right; he felt secure, certain that only people with a right to be there could get in at all. 

The elevator ride—this entire attempt of his—was a last resort. A chance to redeem himself. He knew that he was probably making a mistake. Moments of clarity like this were rare for any man and particularly for him. If he thought about it in detail, he'd been lying to himself and everyone he cared about for years. The results had never been pretty, but he'd gotten used to that. How much worse would things become if he suddenly tried to tell the truth?

Picasso had been eerily silent, leaving Wolfwood with a foul suspicion in his gut. He expected another picture of a girl he might not be lucky enough to save. He expected a cryptic phone call in the middle of the night, destroyed property or disturbing gifts.

What he had gotten instead was radio silence. Picasso had gone underground. But for how long? Worry over the answer was what brought him here today. Last resorts...

Vash had come here more than he had. Vash seemed to him the braver man in a lot of ways.

He'd picked his finest black suit, and why did he wear so much black in a city with summers like the hottest circle of hell? He pushed the button for the 17th floor and stepped into the elevator when the doors opened. Just as the doors were about to close, two men raced down the corridor towards it.

"Hold it!" the heavy-set man in the jogging suit begged breathlessly, waving his arms. The suit was a garish color and the man so large that he took all of Wolfwood's attention. He found it difficult to believe that anyone would willingly leave the house in that color of orange. Courtesy made him push the open button and hold it while the two men raced the last few meters.

"Thanks," the big guy panted once he was inside and the door was closing. He pushed the button for the tenth floor.

"Don't mention it." Wolfwood dismissed the thanks with a lazy wave of his hand.

It wasn't a big elevator and as it took the first lurch upwards, everyone inside lost their balance, Wolfwood's shoulder crashing into the second man's. A tiny spark went up his arm, like static electricity.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don't mention it," the man said, repeating his own words back to him, even mimicking his gruff tenor and accent perfectly. It made Wolfwood turn to look at him in surprise.

Wolfwood's eyes widened. The stranger was, without a doubt, the singularly most beautiful man he'd ever seen. His eyes were what could be called 'old gold,' like familiar religious paintings—the virgin's halo, the saint's tears—all lovingly rendered in priceless gold leaf. His hair was a platinum so pale it almost looked blue beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Even his skin was like bleached porcelain, pale and smooth. He was tall, taller than even Wolfwood, and his shoulders were broad beneath his long-sleeved blue shirt.

Wolfwood dropped his eyes uncomfortably when he saw the man studying him with the same interest.

The jogger got off at the tenth floor, taking his eyesore orange with him, and leaving Wolfwood alone with the tall, intense stranger. From his peripheral vision, he could see the man watching him with bald interest. It made him nervous and oddly excited. It was the kind of interest men had shown him at the clubs, in another life, not so long ago. Under the strobe lights, hidden away in the dark rooms where so few dared to go.

But then he'd been dressed to garner that kind of notice. Then he'd been sexy and mysterious, deliberately so. Now he was just Wolfwood, former detective for the JCPD.

Despite the space opened up by the jogger's leaving, the golden-eyed man didn't move away from Wolfwood. In fact, he almost seemed to be drifting closer to him. The struggle not to look at him was intense for Wolfwood, because, yeah, maybe he was imagining this.

Or maybe he wasn't. And if he wasn't, then what? Such confusion made his eyes drift.

This handsome, intense stranger, interested in him? Stranger things had happened.

It was a relief and a disappointment when the bell chimed and the doors opened onto the carpeted floor. He moved away and felt the air chill. Had they been so close that they'd been sharing body heat? The other man got off on the same floor. Numbered doors spanned down the hallway on either side. Wolfwood turned left, as did the stranger.

But whereas Wolfwood stopped at 17F, the stranger continued down the hall until he turned right, disappearing from Wolfwood's sight. He looked at where the man had turned the corner for a moment then shook his head, ridding himself of befuddled thoughts. He rang the doorbell. After a minute of waiting, the door opened.

"Nicholas," Milly said with her sweet, honest smile. Come in."

He stepped through, nervousness in every angle of his face.

Milly looked just as fresh and young as ever, but there was a gauntness about her features that had not been there earlier in the summer. Beneath her eyes were smudges of purple that stood out starkly with the paleness of her skin. Nothing took away her prettiness, but stress and fear had dulled its shine like tarnish on bronze.

"What can I get you to drink? Would you like something to eat? Oh, thanks for coming! You look," she began and then paused, looking at his haggard appearance critically. "Um...have a seat?" she managed almost smoothly.

Wolfwood pursed his lips at the rapid-fire way she spoke. After a moment he answered with, "Coffee if you have it, please. No thanks, not hungry. It's my pleasure. And don't mind if I do."

She chuckled and it sounded sincere, but tired. He let the un-comment about his appearance slide. He knew he looked like hell. Come to think of it, the face he'd seen in the mirror that morning had been pretty nasty, worse than hers. His routine was truly shot. When was the last time he'd shaved properly? Done laundry? Listened to classical music in his car? Had a _car _to listen to classical music in? Had a full night's sleep?

"It's a shame you always pick coffee. I've got delicious tea. Tons of flavors. Sure I can't tempt you?"

"The spirit is willing," he said and smiled.

She gave a mock sigh. "Then coffee it is."

He settled onto a comfortable, deep green couch and looked around at the apartment. It was lacking the personality of her last residence. This place felt generic. He wondered if it had been deliberate on her part, refusing to settle down in any real way, refusing to let this be her home. In a corner, a suitcase stood on end, as if she expected to pick up and leave and return to normal life at any moment. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"How are things?"

She made a humming noise as she searched for a coffee filter. "Oh, you know, not bad. They've let me go back to work this week. Ever since the news."

And here she stopped to smile at him hugely. "I'm trying really hard not to jump up and down and hug you and scare you, but I might just fail. You caught him! You really, really caught him. I can't thank you enough. You've helped so many people!"

He wanted to scream and curse and find Bennigan and hit him a couple more times. What he did instead was look down at his hands and furrow his brow.

"Nick? Is something wrong?"

The deep breath he took wasn't enough. "Yes. Yes, I have something to tell you."

There was a startled silence and then she came from the kitchen, without coffee and with trepidation on her face. She sat beside him making Wolfwood think strangely that she was the perfect study in body language for training detectives or therapists. She turned her knees towards him, leaned forward, kept her arms uncrossed and her face open and…God this hurt.

"Milly, I want you to come with me."

Her breath caught. Unlike he would have, she didn't try to hide her reaction: first shock that made her pretty eyes widen, and then a shy little smile.

"Go with you where?" And dammit if it wasn't hope in her voice.

"Somewhere far from here."

"But, I don't understand. Things are starting to go back to normal." Here she covered his hand with her own. "We could try again now. We could try _here._"

He looked away from her then. It took Herculean effort not to pull his hand away, too. "Milly, they don't have him."

"What? What are you saying?"

"There were two of them. Vash thinks there are two men and I agree with him. Two men probably committed those crimes. Bennigan—remember him, the Chief?—yeah, he has us cornered. We can't tell the media because he's got us blacklisted. No one will listen to us for fear of losing their jobs, or the trust of the department. He's got us good, Milly. Picasso is still running around out there and...you're the only one who..."

He dropped his head. "You can't stay here."

She was silent for a long time. "But this is my home now. This city! I don't want to leave."

"You can't stay. You just _can't_. It's not safe. They're going to pull your protection to keep up appearances. They're going to throw you to the wolves if you stay. He'll come for you again. He'll use you to..."

And here he turned to her so quickly that she jumped in surprise. He clasped her hands fiercely. "Come with me. Let me protect you. Please."

Her head dropped and she gave a little hiccup of a sob. "Nothing makes sense," she said and it was a plea. Make it make sense, she was saying. Make it stop hurting. He tilted her chin, forced her to look him in the eye.

And here was innocence and goodness and sincerity and all the things he'd lost so long ago so that he barely remembered having them at all. He wanted those things back. And if he could do something to sway her, to make her say what he needed her to say...

"N-Nick?"

"Dammit," he cursed and kissed her.

Later he'd admit to himself that he had no idea what he'd been thinking about during the short moments when their lips touched. But the look on Milly's face when they parted—he would remember it and realize that she had had a fair idea even when he hadn't.

Worse, whatever she'd come to realize hadn't been right. Whatever she'd felt in that kiss hadn't been what she was looking for. Later he'd think about it and wonder what would have happened had she felt something different. Something better.

She turned her head away, her hair covering her face. "I saw him, his picture, on the news. Why does he look like Mr. Vash?"

Wolfwood didn't want to answer that question. He wanted to ask her one instead. "We don't know," he managed. "We just don't know. It could be a fluke; it could be more. Vash was adopted."

"Oh."

The silence was beyond uncomfortable; it was oppressive. "Milly, I've spoken to the man who did those things to you. The one currently in custody is not that man. The police aren't going to protect you because they're being fed the same lies as everybody else. If you come with me—"

"What do you mean 'the police'?" she asked, standing suddenly. "You're the police!"

"No, I'm not. Not anymore. They took my badge. They took Vash's, too."

She shifted on her feet unconsciously, looking more and more ill at ease. Quite suddenly she went still and looked down at him, eyes pained. "Nick, why are _you_ running?" she asked in a whisper. "It's not just to help me, is it?"

And how to answer? How to answer? A minute like a lifetime ticked by. "I'm part of this now," he said to the floor. Finally, he gathered the courage to look into her eyes. "Picasso's motives, his patterns, they've all changed. He was predictable, even, constant, but now he's out of control, confused. It's...he wants my attention. The man they have behind bars couldn't care less that I lost my badge, that I was taken off the case. But if it was him, he'd have killed everyone in the department simply to ensure _I_ interrogated him. Don't you see? This isn't just about his obsession with perfection and patterns anymore. It's—"

"It's about the two of you?" she snapped, crossing her arms and taking a step away from where he sat. "All of this is some game just for the two of you?"

He stood and tried to approach her. "Milly!"

"Was it that way when we were...when we had..." She sniffled and backed away further, warding him off with shaking arms. "Was it this way _before_?"

"No! It just happened!"

She shook her head fiercely. "Did he do those terrible things to me—leaving that dead thing on my door—to get to _you_?"

He didn't take another step but regarded her steadily. "Not at first, no. He saw you when you went to that hotel for the insurance claim. You know that and so do I. Sometime after we started seeing each other, he must have seen me with you. How much of what he did to you was meant to affect me...I just don't know."

She made a strangled noise, something she refused to let become disappointment and grief. "Tell the truth once in your life: are you really running away from him? If I went with you did you even plan on staying with me? Or were you just going to hide me away somewhere safe and then go hunting him again?"

He kept this face impassive, but she saw what he tried to hide anyway. The answer. The ugly, gut-churning answer. All he could do was hope she had enough forgiveness inside her for someone like him.

"Milly, I'm so sorry. Please understand that. I'm so, so sorry."

She nodded her head, accepting in a shattered way. "Not as sorry as I am," she choked.

He wouldn't make her say it. They both knew, but she'd been through enough already. He'd take the burden off her shoulders. "You won't come with me?"

There was both strain and relief in her eyes. "No, Nick. I can't." She wiped a tear away and tried for a smile that only wavered and then failed. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," he said and then walked away, letting the door close softly behind him.

Milly crumpled onto the couch, remembered that it was where he had been sitting, and moved. Then she cried. She cried like she hadn't in a very long time. And then, after she couldn't cry anymore, the fear settled into her chest, lodged there, an immovable block of ice. She shivered and wondered what she'd do next.

* * *

He lost count of the beers. The whisky chasers. The cigarettes. 

He'd turned his phone off. He had messages though. Lots and lots of messages. Somewhere, Vash was probably pretty pissed at him.

Wolfwood just couldn't talk to him now. He'd called in a favor or two and knew that help was nearby for both Milly and Vash, but he needed to be far away from people at the moment.

For whatever reason, he didn't lie to himself about what he'd rather be doing than drinking himself stupid. He'd rather be somewhere getting lost in the pain right now. Only the reminder of how vulnerable he'd made himself, and the look on Vash's face that morning when he'd awakened in a fog of pain and confusion, kept him from going out.

He flexed his fingers on his longneck and lowered his forehead into his hand.

This was hell.

With the world swimming before his eyes, he stared into the shadows of the room. For all he knew, the bastard was there in the shadows of the bar, watching him.

"If I run," he slurred, "will you chase me?"

No one answered him, but he hadn't really expected anyone to.

He paid his tab and staggered into the night.

"If I chase you, will you run?" he added, staring up into the dark, pollution deadened night sky. No stars winked back at him, no moonlight touched his skin.

Heaven was silent and the cross around his neck had never felt so tawdry, the blood on his hands so indelible.

* * *

He awoke just after midnight, still half drunk and needing to piss. He made it to the bathroom in time to do that and lose his cheap, greasy dinner in the sink while attempting to wash his hands. 

Beer: as many drawbacks as benefits.

The light on his answering machine was blinking psychedelic red to his drunken mind and he must have slept hard to have not heard the phone ring. The screen of his cell phone was similarly distorted. He squinted at it and laughed without humor. How many missed calls? Unbelievable. "Vash, you're a persistent bastard," he mumbled.

He turned on his cell phone and wasn't surprised when it rang immediately.

"I know, I know, I'm a jerk," he said.

_"You are many things, Detective. Whether that is among them has yet to be seen."_

Wolfwood stood up with a shocked wrench, but alcohol made him sway and he only dropped back down onto his bed, head throbbing. Of all the sounds he never wanted to hear again, Picasso's voice was on top of the list. Yet, hadn't he been expecting it?

"What the fuck do you want?"

_"Is that any way to talk to someone who is going to great pains for you?"_

"W-whu? I gotta tell ya, I've got a hangover the size of Texas and a headache to match. Use small, simple words."

And dammit if the bastard didn't have the nerve to laugh. _"I appreciate your honesty. The few times I've seen it have been enlightening."_

Here his voice dropped into a whisper like a snake's hiss. _"Today was a good day. I found something I thought I lost. The pattern wasn't complete, but now it can be."_

It was like being punched or stabbed, alarm like this. "No," Wolfwood whispered. "No. _Please._"

_"It's nice to see you appreciate the seriousness of the situation. But let me be honest with you: nothing is the way it's supposed to be. The pattern is beyond repair and I find I can't concentrate on it. There's so much...static. So much noise in the way."_

He stopped speaking suddenly as if he had no words to describe the twisting madness of his mind. _"The game hasn't changed,"_ he said in a suddenly brusque and unyielding voice. _"Make it to us in time, and we can negotiate what to do with your precious friend. I'm not above negotiating, you know that."_

"How long do I have?" Wolfwood asked, voice raw.

_"Two hours. That's it. Same rules apply: no cops, no partner. Disobey me and the game comes to a messy climax."_

"End, Picasso. A messy _end_."

_"You don't really believe that. Oh, and Detective?"_

"What?"

_"Hurry."_

The line went dead and he was left staring into the darkness of his room, half dead with booze and feeling every drop he knew now that he shouldn't have had. Booze and dread made for a bad combination.

"Dammit," he cursed and then got dressed. The last thing he put on was his gun. It wasn't his trusted, well-maintained service piece, but it would have to do. He holstered it, closed his eyes and offered up a prayer, a plea, before going into the night, not certain how he was even going to drive when the world kept blurring.

There was no team of officers at his back. No trusted partner. And no matter how he tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, the smaller, less powerful gun he'd purchased over a year ago for his home seemed like a toy in comparison to what he usually carried.

But it was all he had; it and desperation since his wits went down the sink with his dinner. If only he could end this tonight...

If only...

* * *

Wolfwood had to pull strings and break laws, but he was here, inside the stark apartment where he'd been only that morning. A morning that seemed like a figment of his imagination now. He should have tried harder to convince her to come with him. He should have argued until she gave in. He should have told her the lie she'd probably wanted to hear. 

Picasso couldn't have taken her so long ago: a guard recalled seeing her on her return from a shopping trip that evening. He turned around the room slowly, an anxious police guard standing in the doorway, wishing he'd hurry up.

"Listen, I called the boys, man, but you know she's not missing for another 24. They'll come because she's part of this whole Picasso mess, but when they get here, you'd better not be. You're no cop anymore and the Chief's got a hate-on for you like I've never seen before."

"Just five minutes more, Brian. Ten," he said. There had to be a hint or a clue. There had to be because Picasso wasn't playing the game anymore, no matter what he said. He wasn't doing this to learn about Wolfwood, to see how he worked. He was doing this because he wanted…

Hell, what _did_ he want?

Wolfwood shook his head to clear it and took another turn around the room. This wasn't the same apartment he had been in that morning. Something was different. Vash would have joked about this; he would have said how the entire situation resembled the academy entrance test where you were given a photo of a room and a fixed amount of time to study it, and then shown another picture of the same room with minor changes and asked to find the differences. Like finding that damn Waldo guy. But Vash wasn't here and Wolfwood wondered how many times he was going to be forced to work without his partner.

Something was different.

Something.

There. A tattered Bible sitting on the table farthest from the door. No, it hadn't been there before. The guard's radio buzzed to life.

_"Hey, the boys in blue are coming up,"_ a friendly female voice warned.

The guard radioed back and confirmed the message with something that sounded like confidence. Then he looked at Wolfwood, terrified.

"You've got to go _now_."

"Hold on. I'm out of your hair in thirty seconds."

"I don't know if we _have_ thirty seconds," he said, chubby face showing a sheen of sweat.

Ignoring him, Wolfwood strode to the table and opened the King James to the bookmarked page. It fell open at _Job._

Wolfwood smirked. So Picasso thought he was a comedian.

He read the verse aloud. "'Surely there is a vein for the silver, and a place for gold where they fine it. Iron is taken out of the earth, and brass is molten out of the stone. He setteth an end to darkness, and searcheth out all perfection: the stones of darkness, and the shadow of death. The flood breaketh out from the inhabitant; even the waters forgotten of the foot: they are dried up, they are gone away from men.'"

He read it again, silently. It was the line about perfection that caught his attention, reminding him of Picasso's M.O.: hunting down seemingly perfect girls and then mutilating them. Searching for perfection.

Looking at the words surrounding that key phrase, he started to get an idea.

"It's a place," he said. "He's trying to lead me to a place. I can feel it."

"Come on, sir, you've go to go!" the guard pleaded.

Remembering how bad things would get if he were found here, he ripped the page from the book (apologizing to God mentally), shoved it in his pocket and ran past the guard out the door.

"I owe you one, Brian!" he shouted and headed for the service stairs, certain the officers would take the elevator up.

"You're damn straight you do!"

He exited the stairwell around the corner from the first floor lobby. He could hear voices, but couldn't check to see if there were cops or not without being seen himself. He fumbled through his pockets until he found his silver lighter. Holding it just so, he checked the scene in its shiny surface.

There were cops, but they had their backs to him. He darted past them as quietly as possible and winked at the woman behind the counter. She gave him an indulgent smirk.

Out in the muggy July night, he climbed into the loaner, hit the overhead light, and tore through the glove box for that map he hadn't bothered to return to Vash the night he'd gone after Picasso in that club.

"'The waters forgotten of the foot: they are dried up'," he repeated. He was looking for a place near water. That narrowed his search to the eastern part of the city. Studying the crumpled page of Job, he knocked on his forehead chanting, "Think, think, think."

"Dried up water. 'Shadow of death'. How could something literally be in the shadow of death? Near a cemetery? A cemetery _on a hill_?"

The map was flipped over, the legend stared at. "Cemeteries, cemeteries." He found the symbol and the map was flipped again. "No, wait. I'm forgetting..."

Reading the verse again. Trying to think of the verses as clues instead of words of wisdom from the Good Book. "'A place for gold where they fine it.' A jewelry store? Wait, wait. 'Iron is taken out of the earth, and brass is molten out of the stone.' No, not a store. Before that. A mine. A gold mine? A gold mine near a dried up river and a cemetery? How many places like that could there be?"

As it turned out, only one. He tossed the map onto the passengers seat and screeched out into traffic. He checked the clock and prayed. He'd be cutting it close.

Hell, that guy Job had nothing on him.

* * *

The No Trespassing sign in flaking red and white might as well have said, "Come on in!" for all the good it did in keeping Wolfwood from scaling the fence. The gate was locked with a heavy padlock and he'd left his bolt cutters in his other slacks. 

He reached the top and wobbled just a little. He was sobering up, but it was slow going. And time was running out. Getting here alone had eaten up the minutes.

Besides a road that had been blocked off due to a water main break that had flooded the street, the course was exactly as the map said. The streets had been almost empty. Everyone else was in bed or drinking at the bars. It had just been him and miles and miles of road leading slowly away from the city proper. Southward. And here he was, breaking and entering.

Back on solid ground, he looked around at the bizarre place spread out before him. The July City Bosworth Mine was a sore sight for alcohol-drenched eyes. It looked like something from a horror movie, which he didn't want to think about too much. To his right, the fence he'd just scaled split, one fence continuing along the perimeter and the other one blocking off what looked like a rather steep slope formed from piles and piles of loose rubble and dirt.

While the lightless bottom of that drop looked like a promising place to start his search, he instead moved forward. Dead ahead of him was what had once been the ticket window and gate. Further along was a souvenir shop. The entrance was dark and many of the store's windows were broken, glass sticking up and down like a Jack-O-Lantern's teeth. It had a second floor with no windows that he could see from the front. He drew his gun and stepped inside, cringing when a loud, screeching wooden creak sounded. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, he cringed even more. The whole floor was of loose wooden boards, tenpenny nails barely holding them in place.

Past what had once been the checkout counter and further back he went until he came to a flight of stairs. He moved as quickly as he thought was safe considering how much noise every step he took made. The steps were uneven but they held his weight. He ducked under the low doorframe and found himself in a wide space that had an odd cramped feeling due to the shadows and rotting wooden support pillars at intervals. The only relief to the dreary, ominous feeling of the room was the large windows at its back, but they were greasy with dirt and age and admitted only faint light.

By that weak light, he saw her.

Seated in and bound to a chair, face cast in shadows, was Milly. He raced to the far side of the room, holstering his gun. He was more concerned with speed than stealth at this moment. More than likely, Picasso was watching him from the impenetrable shadows that wrapped the room. But if he could get her free before Picasso decided to play his hand, then his efforts here would not be wasted.

He wished he could credit his way of thinking to academy training and upbringing, but the truth was he'd learned this from all the movies he'd watched with Vash back when they'd had time to watch movies. Back when he'd been hospitalized for so damn long, bald and battered emotionally and physically. Vash had visited often and they had watched the badly edited action flicks on the idiot box, laughing at the unrealistic portrayal of police life they always showed. Still, those brainless movies did serve a purpose.

He didn't race forward and remove the gag like rescuers always did in the movies. Instead, he got her feet undone. Mouths did nothing but talk, but feet could run. In short order, he started on the binds around her wrists. His fingers struggled with the knots since he could barely see them. Finally, he felt the rope give and he tugged the last knots away violently.

She wrenched off the gag and screamed, "Behind you!"

Which is what the damn victim usually screamed the minute the gag was off in the movies. At least, he thought as the pain started, he'd gotten her free before she screamed it.

He was barreled into like he was a quarterback with the ball. By nothing, of course. Just power. His feet came out from under him and he knew he was going sideways. When he hit, he had just enough strength and will to stand again, face his attacker and make a charge. His target stood before the chair where Milly had been tied. Wolfwood pulled his piece and fired. His aim was terrible, ruined by booze and pain, but he was only trying to distract. Was Picasso good enough to use his powers on two people while being shot at?

Wolfwood doubted it and fired again.

"Milly, RUN!" he screamed. Her eyes were huge and afraid, but she stumbled for the door and then managed a jog. When her form disappeared from the door, it was at a dead run.

There was only one shot left in the chamber. He fumbled for his spare clip, made to reload...

And never got to.

When his fingers clutched and then spread wide, beyond his control, he heard the sound every cop hates a second later: that of a gun dropping like a stone to the ground. At that time, he knew that he had played his last card. Still, he'd consider his hand a winning one if Milly got free. The hand holding the spare clip was whipped away from his body and his fingers released it. It flew across the room. The sound of bullets raining down and disappearing into the darkness was possibly the worst noise he'd ever heard. Worse than the gun, even.

Only a bolstering noise could make him endure such a sound: Milly's footsteps grew softer and softer until he knew she'd made it out of the building, at least. God he hoped Picasso didn't have any allies waiting outside.

There was pressure on his legs, forcing his knees to bend. It wore him down until finally he collapsed, barely managing to stay upright on his knees. And he couldn't move; locked in place as surely as he had been in that club the night Linda Pitt died. His hands were held behind his back as if by ropes. His attacker stepped from the shadows to loom over him.

"Hello, Detective," he said in that too familiar, lovely, poison voice.

"You!" Wolfwood cried, shock registering across his body. The man from the elevator, just as stunning, just as terrifying in the intensity of his study of Wolfwood. Those same golden eyes that anyone would happily lose themselves in, were not for the madness they'd find waiting inside.

"Me. And there went Milly. A pity, but a necessary sacrifice. She's lovely. She would have made a wonderful addition. But I let her go. I let you save her. Now we can talk. You said you have questions, back on the bridge. You said quite a few things that night, actually. How much of that was your usual lies?"

Finding his mouth capable of motion, Wolfwood said, "You've used the people I care about as bait for the last time."

"Oh, that's right: you're the only one allowed to play the part of bait. Am I right?"

Wolfwood was silent, but his chest was rising and falling with anger.

"If it makes you feel better, you led me to her. In a fashion, you got to play the part of bait today, even if you didn't know it." At Wolfwood's glare, he shook his head. "And why did you go to see her? So you could run away with her? Start a new life? You want to have the wife and kids and dog? Something normal, predictable and safe? You're a mess of a man. What exactly are you running from: me or your partner?"

Without answering the question, Wolfwood exclaimed, "You didn't have to hurt Milly to get to me, you coward. Milly had nothing to do with this!"

Picasso's voice was a scream, violent and terrible. "No, she doesn't! She has nothing to do with this any more than Maria Estevez did or Linda Pitt. Do you think they mattered? Do you think I cared? I wasn't lying, Detective: I wanted to see you work. They were bait and you knew it and came anyway."

He paused, chest heaving. "No, Milly doesn't matter. I could still kill her. Whether I do or not is up to you."

"You bastard," Wolfwood said, his voice full of disgust. "Why are you doing this?"

Picasso's face lit up with surprise. "Why are you asking when you _know_?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Wolfwood hollered. "You're insane. There's no understanding you. Or people like you."

Still unable to move, Wolfwood could only flinch when Picasso tilted his chin higher with one of his long fingers. Wolfwood refused to look away.

Picasso's pale face split into a wide grin, seeing something that pleased him in Wolfwood's dark blue eyes. "And there it is: you _do _know, don't you? Why is that, do you suppose?"

Picasso bent and retrieved Wolfwood's gun, holding it as if he had never handled a weapon before. Handle out, he offered it to the man on his knees. Wolfwood eyed it like it was a viper and hesitated. Then, realizing his body was free to move, he grabbed it desperately and jerked to his feet. He took a step back, cocked the gun and aimed it at Picasso's chest.

"Now we're getting somewhere," the killer sighed in pleasure. "You understand me because we're alike in many ways. You think like a killer. Your entire career you've walked a thin line, hoping no one noticed that you're less police than criminal. You're just missing the last step. Let me help you reach it."

He took a step forward and paused before Wolfwood fearlessly, the gun pressing into his chest, loaded and cocked.

"I could kill you now," Wolfwood said in a fragile voice.

And here the smile on the killer's face widened. "Yes, yes! _That's_ the feeling. Embrace it; let it infect you. Now, imagine thinking that about everyone who passes by you: every man, woman and child. Imagine having the power to destroy the wicked and the liars. Imagine the potential to expose the evil inside, the corruption in every soul."

"Those girls you killed had done nothing wrong!"

The smile transformed into a fierce glare. "Hadn't they? Don't be foolish: everyone is guilty. Everyone is too human not to be. Sara Carter went to church every Sunday because she spent every Saturday sleeping with her best friend's husband. Angela Beasley gambled away every cent she earned and drank herself to sleep at night. Linda Pitt had her drugs and her lies to hide them. And Kelly Morgan was a stripper, but really nothing better than a whore. Yet all of them pretended to be perfect, innocent, good. The world is better off without them."

"And Milly? What did Milly ever do?" Wolfwood hissed.

Picasso closed his eyes for a prolonged moment. "Milly's sin...was you."

Wolfwood shook his head dumbly. "What does that mean?" he whispered.

"It doesn't matter now," he snapped in reply. "I've made the choices I've made for a reason and you've hunted me for them. Now I want you to understand me _completely_. You think I'm a killer. You want to eliminate me, cleanse the world of my presence. You understand the desire, but do you understand the intoxication of carrying it through to its final, unyielding end? Here's the ultimate question: do you purge the world of the wicked and flawed, or do you let them live to sin again? You have that choice _now_. You have the chance to feel that kind of power," he intoned darkly and suddenly clutched Wolfwood's wrist, forcing the gun even harder into his own chest. The cold metal ground against the bone beneath his clothes. Wolfwood panicked, tried to pull away, but the more he pulled, the tighter Picasso held him.

Their eyes met, and Picasso's were deadly molten pools. "I have that choice _everyday_. My name is Legato Bluesummers, welcome to my world."

This strange power always left a sickening feeling in his stomach after it passed. But while it was affecting him, panic was the primary reaction. Losing control of his body, again, in a way so different from what happened to him at the clubs. A singularly unpleasant, helpless feeling.

Wolfwood felt his finger twitching on the trigger, muscles contracting. He struggled, but never looked away from those terrible golden eyes. His own widened and he gasped, sense memory almost making him relax his resistance. For a second, two, he was a child again, fingers wrapped clumsily around the handle of a gun, staring up with hatred at a giant. And would it be so bad, after all, to cleanse the world of men like this?

And then that awful feeling was gone and he could fight again; he could refuse to become a monster.

The man who called himself Legato studied him with the closest thing to shock that his porcelain face seemed capable of forming. "I see! Oh, _I see_! All this time I thought there was a difference between us—_this_ difference—but now I see how wrong I was. You've already made this decision before. How many times? Once? Twice? Who was it? A lover? A parent? Who did you murder for the sake of a better world?"

An invisible tendril of power around his neck forced Wolfwood's chin to lift while another wrenched his arms further away from his body. It was a parody of the position he'd found his partner in that bloody day not so long ago: crucified.

The gun dropped from his hands, again, and dammit if he wasn't in too much pain to even curse that horrible noise.

Shoulders straining against the torque and pull, he screamed.

"I know what is the mask and what is the truth. There never was a Detective with all his obsessive perfectionism. Deep down, you're nothing but what you pretended to be all those years ago. You are Chapel and your soul is black as coal. There is nothing that divides us."

Legato moved closer until they stood a hairsbreadth apart. "Nothing."

To be continued...

* * *

Up next: 

Vash, angry, was something too few people had seen. Those who had rarely forgot it. His eyes were alive with it, his face shadowed with it.

"Get the hell away from him," he hissed coldly.

Picasso, looming over Wolfwood and smiling a thin, twisted smile, regarded him with slow, calculating hatred.

"Make me."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Be here when the Endings storyline continues, thereby proving that I'm terrible at naming things. 

For those people rusty on their Old Testament (er...like me), the verse was from Job 28. Job is the most put-upon man in the Bible. He's so terribly picked on so I think Wolfwood can feel some kinship with him.


	30. Endings, Part II

Warnings: Slashiness, violence, adult language, yoinkage from the film "The Watcher." WTF-ness and head-scratching plot twists. Wow! And all of this for free! Bad spelling, but you know that already.

Author's note: In the past two years of extremely slow updates, I've asked you guys to suspend your disbelief many, many times. And I've always appreciated it when you've stuck with me through some pretty crazy shit. I'm asking you to bear with me again. To the max. Throw your disbelief out the window. Or, better yet, shoot it. Just put it out of its misery.

The story so far:

Wolfwood has lost his badge and unwittingly put Milly in danger. Following a cryptic clue left by the killer once known only as Picasso, Wolfwood managed to free Milly at the cost of his own freedom. Now Picasso has revealed that his name is Legato Bluesummers, but his motives are still unclear. Strikingly beautiful and tormented, Legato is convinced that Wolfwood is as much as killer as he is himself. The story continues.

* * *

Part XLII:

Endings, Part II

* * *

Vash was begging and he knew he was. 

"Kaite, please!"

"I said I _can't_. You don't work here, fo' real. You sure ain't no detective anymore. I don't know why they let you in here," he said and it was a question of a sort, but Vash didn't answer. Kaite continued, his words growing harsher, "You don't even have anything to bargain with like the _last _time he went off to get himself killed. This could cost me my stupid fucking job—not that I care about it that much, yo. But let's be serious: you don't have a damn thing I want, scarecrow."

"But he's your friend!"

Kaite scoffed at that. "Friend?"

"Yeah, _friend_. And he might be in trouble."

"He's always in trouble," Kaite said and stalked away from him, moving equipment with strength belied by his wiry arms. "If you couldn't tell, I'm clearing out the call center. This shit's all goin' back where it came from. As far as everybody _but_ you is concerned, the Picasso investigation is over. The feds took your look alike away in an armored wagon. 'sides, the equipment you need ain't even plugged in anymore. Out. Of. Service."

"Everybody's wrong," Vash said and stalked after him, dogging his steps. "That killer's still out there and he's got it out for my partner. Come on, I need your help." It was a little unusual to see Kaite up and moving. Usually his backside was glued to a chair and his eyes to a monitor. Kaite mobile like this reminded Vash of how short the kid was. Of the fact that he was, simply, a kid.

Probably one who was pretty pissed at Wolfwood, who hadn't said goodbye to him, either. But as near as Vash could tell, Wolfwood hadn't said goodbye to anybody. Worse, he'd disappeared. There was complete radio silence and with Picasso still out there, Vash didn't want to take any chances. Unlike Kaite, Vash wasn't angry: he was worried and until someone could rewrite the past, he had no reason to be otherwise.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Kaite said and whirled on his heels, slamming something that looked expensive down onto the nearest empty desk. "When Wolfwood needs help, he comes to me. And when _you_ need help getting Wolfwood out of shit he gets himself into, you come to me. But when all is said and done, everybody fuckin' walks out on Kaite. Ain't that a bitch?"

He rubbed at his scrawny shoulder, looking down at the dark floor of the nearly empty call center. "You always gonna try and get him out of trouble? Maybe just once you should let him deal with his own mess. Did he even _thank _you for the crazy shit you went through for him three years ago? Prob'ly not. You lied under oath for him. Under oath! Dammit, you spiky-haired idiot! Just give up on him, dude."

Vash shook his head. "He never gave up on me."

Kaite looked at him, considering. His face was too young for eyes that old.

Sensing an edge, Vash kept his voice simple and sincere. "Listen, he didn't say goodbye to me either, but I believe he did it for a reason: he's afraid. Picasso has shown him that he's willing to hurt the people he cares about before just to get his attention, just to keep him under his control. Nick's probably out there right now trying to protect us. He's always trying to take care of other people," Vash said and then whispered, "but the number of people who take care of him? Here in July? Kaite, that's you and me. _Just _you and me. We're all there is."

Kaite's stone expression softened.

"He's crap at showing it, but he cares about you. I have to go after him, to stop anything bad from happening to him, and I need your help."

Kaite scowled at him, flint and stone full force once more. "Get bent," he said before grabbing a complex collection of heavy looking parts and storming for the door.

Vash was shocked enough that no words came to him at first. When they did, they were simply confusion. "Kaite, what is this all about? Why won't you help him?"

And Kaite didn't turn around. His voice was strangely high and childish when he answered. "Yeah, you may be right: I _do _care about the guy. But the last time he did something dumb, you _both _almost died. Chances are…"

He shook his head. "Listen, asshole, if he's already done for, I'm not sending you out to join him. You're...I mean...I_...whatever_. Go get killed on your own time. I won't help you commit suicide."

He took a step forward, back tense and added softly, "Please, Vash. Just...don't," before hurrying away, back to his dark, lonely, equipment-filled room beneath the station. Vash wanted to run after him, grab him and shake him and ask him if he understood that a man's life was at stake. But recalling the boy's words, he had to admit that Kaite knew just as he did that a man's life was at stake.

The only difference was the man they were referring to.

For a long, lost moment, all he could do was sit down heavily and stare at his hands, wondering why they felt useless. He was so absorbed in the study that the man's voice startled him.

"Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to scare you," the large man in overalls said. Vash didn't recognize him at first and then memory tapped him on the shoulder. "You're Joey, the electrician who helped when the phone lines died."

"Came to help set up the call center, stayed when all the phones went haywire," he said with an easy laugh. Vash smiled, but felt a nudge at the back of his mind that made him uncomfortable. "What are you doing here so late at night?" he asked.

"Oh, last minute clean up. Picking up some equipment you guys borrowed. Or...that this department borrowed since you…ah…lost your badge."

Vash looked at him sharply and the man held up his hands defensively. "Hey, hey, people talk. That's all this station's been talking about: you and your partner getting the axe. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

Joey looked down nervously resembling an overgrown schoolboy in those overalls. "I kinda overheard you talking to Trevesick. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, honest. And I'm only bringing it up because…maybe I can help you?"

Vash's worries and uncertainties about the man fell away. He stood excitedly. "Can you? Really?"

"Yeah, just give me a second to find the machine I need."

What he needed had been sat aside in a corner and was in three parts. He started working immediately, obviously at ease with machines like this. He assembled everything atop the nearest desk.

After a few minutes, he plugged all of it in and Vash watched with his breath held.

Finally, a monitor buzzed to life. The message box at the top asked for the code of the desired cloned and tracked cell phone.

Joey searched the database, typed in the code for Wolfwood's cell phone and hit enter.

The GPS activated instantly, zeroing in. Vash couldn't stop himself from clasping the man's shoulder.

"Thank you."

"No problem, Mr. Saverem. It was my pleasure," he said with that same too easy smile.

Vash kept his attention on the screen. The map enlarged and sharpened. Wolfwood's phone was on and stationary. Vash scanned the spaghetti maze of old July streets for the fastest route to the location and then memorized it.

"Hoooo!" the man whistled. "That's way out there! You really going so far out?"

"Yes. What is that place?"

He scratched his chin boyishly. "Well, it's an old gold mine. What's left of one, anyway. They used to pan for gold out there until the company baled out when profits hit bottom. And really, panning for gold, hard rock mining, they did it all over there. Man, you don't want to see what hard rock mining does to the ground. Anyway, the city kept the mine open. A tourist trap is what it was. Families brought their kids and for a fee you could pan for gold the way they used to do it in the 'olden days' or even go down into the shafts."

He shrugged then added, "It wasn't much fun I guess—or very profit turning—because they shut the whole operation down over ten years ago. It's all fenced off now since the land's worthless and dangerous to boot. I mean, you can't plant on it without paying an arm and a leg to take care of land that's been taken to hell and back for gold. Can't build on it 'cause it's not exactly level anymore, is it? Leveling it off would cost just as much as enriching the soil. The place is a dump."

He cast a sideways glance at Vash. "What's your partner doing out there?"

He'd gotten better recently at not seeing the scene that haunted him over and over in his mind. This time he almost succeeded at banishing the images of Wolfwood bound and bleeding on the ground before they surfaced. Almost.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

"You want me to...ya know...come with? S'not like you can request backup anymore, is it? And...well...I'm just an electrician, but it seems dangerous for you to go alone."

Vash shook his head, but smiled to show he appreciated the offer. "No, you've done so much already. I can't thank you enough."

"Was no problem at all, sir."

Vash gave him one last smile and darted out the door.

"No problem at _all_," Joey added under his breath and then shut the machine down, bathing the room and his face in darkness.

Vash, however, walked outside the station into the dark night and then away from South Branch, certain that it was the last time he ever would.

Moments later, and there really was nothing left to do but hope. There was a gun in his glove box and a map in his head. Outside of that, what did he have? Certainly he didn't have assurances. Wolfwood could have had his cell phone stolen or had thrown it away for all he knew. Vash could go out to that gold mine and find nothing. Or he _could _go out there and find his partner in more trouble than he could get himself out of. One way or the other, he had to go.

In his beat up jeep, he didn't feel very much like a cop about to negotiate a potentially volatile and violent situation. Then he reminded himself that he _wasn't_ a cop anymore, which might have more to do with it. He pulled out his cell phone and pulled out into the street almost in one motion. He called the police first, gave them some lame story about hearing shouts and seeing people prowling around in the dark at the address. They were sending units. He just hoped police involvement wouldn't do more harm than good.

He tried Wolfwood's cell phone again only to throw it down in frustration a minute later when it rang and rang and then clicked over to voicemail. So he drove.

July city streets were often maze-like. The city was so old and it just kept building and rebuilding on top of its own bones. Like a layered cemetery, all the death stretching back through time just under your feet. The labyrinthine roads were testament to the endless change that scarred the face of the city.

In the dark, he had to be extra careful of the street signs, scanning each one anxiously out of fear that he'd taken a wrong corner or overshot another.

Even when he was certain he was going the right way, he didn't relax. What _was_ Wolfwood doing in a place like that?

There was only one way to know.

* * *

His gun was on the ground. Didn't matter much since there was only one bullet in the damn thing. Didn't matter much since he couldn't move his arms _anyway._

An invisible tendril of power around his neck forced his chin to lift while another wrenched his arms further away from his body. It was a parody of the position he'd found his partner in that bloody day not so long ago: crucified.

Shoulders straining against the torque and pull, he screamed.

"I know what is the mask and what is the truth. There never was a Detective with all his obsessive perfectionism. Deep down, you're nothing but what you pretended to be all those years ago. You _are_ Chapel and your soul is black as coal. There is nothing that divides us."

Legato moved closer until they stood a hairsbreadth apart. "Nothing."

There was an unreadable expression in the killer's pretty golden eyes as they roamed over Wolfwood's face. What he was thinking, Wolfwood couldn't fathom. Wolfwood's own thoughts were full of regret.

He had unintentionally led this mad dog to where Milly was supposed to have been safe. And when no one was looking, when no one could have known that danger was so close, he had taken her and left a cryptic clue leading to her whereabouts for Wolfwood to decipher in mere hours. It had felt daunting and impossible, but he had done it. He had, and he had come here to save Milly. But nothing was ever as it seemed with Picasso, for instead of ripping the girl to pieces or even stopping her heart in her chest as he was capable of, Picasso had let her live, let Wolfwood release her.

And had taken him instead.

So here he was, his arms being wrenched away from his body, dying in Milly's place. And the killer who had revealed himself as Legato Bluesummers was invading his person space while he casually inflicted pain, studying him, searching for something in his face.

"I see you," he said at last and leaned in so that his lips were too close to Wolfwood's. Their eyes were locked and _what _the hell was going on?

And then even that didn't matter anymore as the wooden floor one floor down gave a tortured creak. And then another.

Someone was coming. Legato wore a strangely knowing expression. Breath a warm tickle against Wolfwood's lips, he said, "Tonight has just begun."

Then he was dropped like a stone to his knees and held there, his body completely under Legato's control.

The footsteps were thundering up the steps heedless of caution.

"Don't come up!" Wolfwood tried to say, but the sound was too soft to carry or do much good at all. And then Vash was standing before them, gun drawn and eyes dark and tempestuous. Wolfwood knew that it wouldn't have mattered even if Vash had heard the warning: he would have come anyway.

Vash, angry, was something too few people had seen. Those who had rarely forgot it. His eyes were alive with it, his face shadowed with it.

"Get the hell away from him," he hissed coldly.

Legato was looming over Wolfwood, unarmed and still deadly, smiling a thin, twisted smile. He regarded Vash with calculating hatred.

"Make me."

"Put your hands up and back away from him. Now!"

Legato tilted his head in consideration while one of his hands absently stroked along Wolfwood's jaw. "Or what? You want to save him, but how far are you willing to go? Would you become a killer to save him? He'd kill in a moment for you."

"This is your last warning!"

"No, Detective Saverem, it's yours." His eyes widened and his hair lifted gently by a force of his own making.

And Vash could feel it, like thousands of little lashing fingers struggling through the air towards him. Picasso's power, stretching across the distance, ready to break and twist him into something new.

That terrible force of nature that seemed to reside in the man's body was reaching for him. Rending the air—

It was a strange time to remember his partner's troubled words from a few days ago on the roof of the department. Or maybe the timing was perfect.

Wolfwood had looked sincerely disturbed as he described the events of that night.

_"Everything went still. Everything, everyone. Except…no, not everyone."_

_"The people who ran out first?" _Vash had prompted.

_"Yeah, they weren't affected by whatever it is he does. It was like they were immune. I figured it was because they were all nearby me, you know? Something about proximity."_

_"It must have been deliberate. From what you say, he has amazing control over that power of his. It had to have been deliberate. I mean, it had to have been, right?"_

_"I dunno. I really don't. Maybe we're just missing something."_

Yeah, they'd been missing something, and now was the time to notice it. He was thinking about proximity. He was measuring the distance.

He took a single step back. The tendrils swirled and circled, reached, stretched—

—and ultimately failed. The disbelief and confusion on Picasso's face was something Vash imagined he would remember for a long, long time. His lips curved into a wicked smile.

"You missed," he said, lifted his arm in a seamless, graceful arch and fired. A piercing sound, a cloying smell, gun smoke lingering in the air. Vash kept his aim steady, ready to fire again. The blood was already dribbling down Picasso's dark shirt, turning it darker. He clutched his shoulder, looking down at it, a child confused. Then he looked up at Vash.

"Y-you..."

His shocked face added to Vash's oddly dark and twisted sense of victory. That is, until he saw Wolfwood's body spasm once and then again more violently. It was as if the bullet had unbalanced Picasso, sending his powers ricocheting around the room and wildly into Wolfwood who flopped over as if lifeless.

Vash panicked. "Nick!" He stormed forward and that was a mistake because now he _was_ too close. Before he could retreat, he felt his muscles tense, his body lift and shake. He was shot back across the room, felt the air rushing from his lungs until he thought his chest would collapse.

He hit, hard. Going down, he felt his body twist oddly. It was, he realized, the greatest physical pain he had experienced in his entire life. The noise was like splintering wood. Buckling steel. Consciousness filtered out and away, bleeding to the edges like wet ink on a page. That wasn't all that was bleeding. His fingers were wet with the sticky congeal of blood. With the last of his ever fading vision, he saw Picasso stagger to his feet and look down with a strange, bereft expression at where Wolfwood lay prone.

And then the lights went out.

* * *

The pain flared and made the world snap to focus. The pain that had knocked him down had felt like what he imagined being shot in the gut with a wooden spike felt like. It had felt manic and out of control. He looked around at the far side of the room and felt his breath hitch. 

Vash.

Wolfwood pushed himself up but slipped on blood and crashed down hard. Splinters of wood from the floor embedded into his flesh when he tried to catch himself. He was more careful on the second attempt. He heard footsteps and turned again to see Picasso's—Legato's—retreating back. The bullet had passed clean through and the back of his shoulder was wet with blood.

The man suddenly stopped and turned back to him. He didn't move, but stared at him intently obviously waiting for something. For _him_. It was an open challenge: this is your chance to catch me, he seemed to say. Which is it, Detective: catch me or save him?

Wolfwood knew what his cop instincts were telling him to do. The rest of his mind however, knew what mattered.

Across the room was Vash. Wolfwood turned away from the killer and ran to his partner, almost tripping again due to unsteady legs and an uneven floor. He didn't see Legato's expression, which was furious with some unnamed emotion.

He didn't seem him turn and flee as if defeated. All he saw was the unconscious man across the room. All he heard was a running internal monologue of, _"No, no, no, dammit, no."_

"Vash! Dammit, Vash, don't you dare be—"

He dropped onto his knees, hands hovering uncertainly over arms and face and torso. Vash's body was at an uncomfortable looking angle, his back wedged into the joint made my wall and floor. With his chest sunken in like that, it was hard to see if he was breathing or not, so Wolfwood gently slid his arms under Vash's arms and knees and laid him on the floor. Lowering his head to the man's chest he listened.

There was nothing.

Vash wasn't breathing and really, had anything ever sounded as terrible as the silence where Vash's life was meant to be?

"Damn you, Vash," he said. "You still owe me money." He rolled up his sleeves and was amazed at how calm he felt, his CPR training coming to him easily.

Plug the nose, breath in, one, two...

"Breathe! Goddammit, breathe!"

Breath in, one, two...

There was a pulse. He tilted his head and listened again. It was there. It wasn't steady, but it was strong. He was preparing to apply pressure when—

"Gerroff. Your head's heavy and you smell like cigarette smoke and beer."

Wolfwood's relief was an audible sigh as he sat up to look down at Vash's face. "I thought you were a goner."

"Ditto." He coughed once. "You would have brought a date to my funeral. I can see it now, you romancing some leggy brunette over my dead body."

Wolfwood shook his head. "I can't believe you can joke at a time like this."

"Who says I'm joking? You _would _have brought a date to my funeral, you tasteless jerk," he said and then scowled at his former partner. "What are you doing?"

Wolfwood had reached into his pocket and extracted his cell phone, pressing it into Vash's hand. "Call them. Have them send an ambulance."

"You think I came out here without calling them _first_?" he said indignantly and used Wolfwood's shoulder to pull himself up. As if on cue, sirens suddenly reached them from the distance, growing louder and louder.

"You're a genius," Wolfwood said and squeezed his shoulder.

"Don't I know it?" he tried to joke again and then frowned. It wasn't as if he had noticed anything, it was simply that he knew this man very well. "Don't," he said simply. "Just don't. The cops are on the way; you're injured. Even if you go after him, what can you do? Look what he did to _me_. Let it go."

Wolfwood let his hand linger and then slide away, brushing along Vash's arm as it fell. He stood and looked down at his partner. "I can't. One way or another, this ends tonight."

"Ple—"

"Vash," Wolfwood interrupted and turned his back. After silence occupied the space where words were meant to have been for long moments, Vash prompted him hesitatingly with, "Nick?"

And Wolfwood, head down could only say, "You know already," before taking a wounded run out of the room.

Vash watched him go and managed to clench his fist angrily. "If that was your sorry excuse for a goodbye," he said on a cough to the empty room, "you've got another thing coming."

* * *

He took off after the man who had made his life a living nightmare. The sirens were behind him now, their sound deadened by the building he'd just exited. How long would it take the cops to get here? To scout the building? To get to Vash? And how far would Legato have made it by the time they arrived? 

That is, if he'd fled the scene at all. And that thought made him pull up short and look. Really _look_.

Common sense said that Picasso was long gone; off past the mine shafts into the woods where they deepened to his left or along the sad excuse for a creek to the river and then the ocean where he could blend with the shadows from the factories and shipyards.

Yes, common sense said he was long gone.

Understanding of a fraction of the man's insanity told him that he was anything but.

Wolfwood turned in a slow circle and when he felt a familiar prickling, he halted and stared into the dark.

The mines.

Over the low, dilapidated fence he went and then down the slope made of gravel and dirt. His footing was precarious and he slipped more than he walked, but eventually he came to a standstill. Before him was the mouth of the man made cave. Inside was ink made into air and bottled by the enclosure of the cave. Eyes didn't adjust to darkness like this.

A mine, by definition, usually only had one way in or out and Legato would be essentially blind in this one; why would the killer trap himself in such a way?

Wolfwood took the first step towards the mouth of the cave, gravel scuffing under his feet. The answer was simple: with powers like Legato's, the trapped one would be Wolfwood. If he was stupid enough to follow the man in, that is.

He went in and was almost instantly blinded by the dark.

The ceiling of the tunnel was a foot too short for him to stand properly, so he ducked and progressed slowly by running his hands along the rocky walls. A few meters in, his foot hit something. He held the curse in his throat, reached for his lighter and walked his hands down the wall to the oddly shaped thing. It was an oil lantern. He shook it and the slosh of oil sounded in the musty space. It took a bit of a struggle to work with the rusted thing, but finally he got it lit and stashed his lighter. It made a rather weak but comforting light in a circle around him. He advanced with more confidence now, wondering if he had made a mistake. There was no way to tell if Legato had come this way or not.

Up ahead, about ten meters before him, the tunnel suddenly shrank and then widened into a larger cavern. The cavern itself split into three separate paths. He entered the surprisingly chilly space, sat down the lantern and knew he had come to the end of his journey. It was the same tension in the air that let him know. He had felt it at the club that terrible night when the killer had stood so close and his breath had tickled his neck. Legato was here.

The cavern's ceiling was higher so he stood to his full height, rolling back his shoulders and wincing involuntarily at all the places that hurt.

Without a gun, but full of bravado brought on by anger and frustration, he spoke harshly, his voice carrying to the top of the high cavern and echoing away into nothing.

"Dammit, at least have the decency to end this like a man. Come out, you son of a bitch. Come out here so I can watch you bleed to death."

From the shadowy entrance of the leftmost tunnel, Legato emerged, as if he had been part of the darkness and merely broken away, pale and unique in the weak lantern light.

"Only if I can take you with me," he said with black humor in his tone.

Wolfwood was suddenly slammed against the wall of the cave by nothing, a sensation that he was damn tired of. Rock crumbled around his shoulders when he hit and his breath left his body in one giant exhale. And, yeah, it hurt, but he was now so used to the feel of the man's power that he could feel the difference. The same lack of control that had floored him before was present now. Legato's power was suffering with him.

Legato advanced, moved with all the grace of a cat despite the seeping red stain of blood at his shoulder. He loomed over Wolfwood who was hunched over in pain, legs bent and body curled in around his stomach. With the forearm of his good arm forced into Wolfwood's throat, Legato pushed him back until his aching spine was flat against the rough stone. Legato spoke matter-of-factly, but with a poisoned edge to the tone.

"Congratulations, Detective, you caught me. Or, is it the other way around? Are you having fun?"

"You're under arrest," Wolfwood heaved and to hell with not being a cop anymore.

Legato ignored him and glanced at the wound on his shoulder.

"This hurts. Does your partner shoot everyone who tries to take you away from him?"

Wolfwood coughed. "Why, is that what you're doing? That's awfully romantic. You have the right to remain silent."

Legato chuckled and his eyes were pools of madness. The smile fell off his face quite suddenly. "How could it be that you chose _him_? That was _it_. Back there was our moment together, what this is all about, and you chose _him_. I thought you understood what mattered. You ruined _everything._"

"Anything you say can and will be_...Me? _Hah!I ruined everything? You bastard, _you_ ruined _my_ life and all because _you_ don't even know what the fuck you want."

The golden eyes, made dark by the impenetrable blackness of the cave, traveled over his face, a troubled stirring in their depths. His hands moved to Wolfwood's shoulders, joining with that undeniable power to push him harder against the wall. "I know what I want."

"Yeah? Then tell me because I'm damn confused."

He blinked at Wolfwood, still studying his face slowly. "I want to destroy you. You don't deserve to live. You're flawed. A liar, just like all the others. You pretend to be so complete, so perfect, but you are full of sin. So terribly flawed. I _want _to destroy you. You and all the others like you."

"Man, who are you trying to convince? That's not what you want," Wolfwood whispered and lifted his eyes. What he saw was honesty, an honesty both rare and horrible for it. A million wants were shining out of them, accompanied by the hate of having shown such a thing at all. Windows to a mad, demented world.

Wolfwood refused to turn away from them again. He would face this, whatever it was. "That's not what you _want _at all, is it?"

"Silence!"

A crimson shot of pain went from Wolfwood's head to his toes and he cried out as consciousness went fuzzy around the edges. When his head was firmly back on his shoulders and not spinning, he barked out a pained laugh. "Now _that's_ more like it. I knew you had it in you. You've had a million chances to kill me and now you're finally showing what you're made of. That hurt, but you can do better. Come on, you can't leave me alive and you know it. You said so yourself. Leave a liar like me alive so I can go have my happily ever after? With _Vash_? The big reunion scene with a kiss before the sunset and everything? You're gonna let me be happy with him?"

"Shut up!"

The pain was worse this time, pounding rage lashing out at him, like a child's tantrum taken out on a doll.

A trickle of blood surfaced at the corner of his lip. Another trickle strangely ran down the inside of his arm and pooled in his hand. He realized that the scars on his back were bleeding. Again.

"Oh, ho, ho," he half-laughed, half-cried when he could think straight. "Come on, is that all you've got? Fucking _do_ it. What the hell is wrong with you? You ripped Linda Pitt into pieces in seconds, you can do the same to me just as easy. You say this is what you want, right? Killing me? So just fucking off me and end this! Prove to me you know what you want. Do it."

His fingers tightened on Wolfwood's shoulders but Wolfwood was already in so much pain that this new addition hardly registered.

"I don't have to prove anything to you. I know what I want."

"Fucking liar," Wolfwood said and felt the last of his strength leave him. If he'd had any control over his body at all, he'd have collapsed and slept or just curled up and died. As it was, he didn't. Legato still held him. How much of it was with his remarkable mind and how much of it was with the strength in his arms, Wolfwood couldn't say anymore. "You're a goddamn liar and I'm sick of this game. Kill me or leave me alone."

"Damn you," Legato said on what could have been a sob. "Damn you," he repeated, breathing shallowly and raggedly.

"Damn us both," Wolfwood coughed, finding enough control when Legato's wavered to bring his bloody hand up to Legato's cheek. It left a long, crimson swath on the pale skin when he stroked it. "I'll see you in hell."

Picasso hissed and then moaned and then Wolfwood was tugged, pulled, taken to him, folded in his arms, and kissed. It was a horrifying, poisoned kiss simply because nothing should be so raw and open and wounded and desperate. Once the shock washed over him and then away, other sensations took over. The yearning frantic pace of it all made Wolfwood's legs weak and his body tremble. There was a backdrop of pain working on his every nerve, teasing and arousing. Somehow, unbelievably, his arms wound around the killer's neck. Legato was squeezing his weak breath from his chest, stealing it and panting it back. "I'm going to destroy you," he said and then gasped into Wolfwood's mouth when his lips parted in welcome.

"You already have," Wolfwood said and was pressed closer into the heat. Hot, damp, thick, stroking in his mouth, a suggestive rhythm—throbbing—and he tangled with it, his own tongue fighting back. And dammit if this wasn't the damndest way to win.

There was the sound of fabric bunching as his shirt was lifted and the stale air of the cave only had the shortest second to caress his battered chest because Legato's hands and mouth were there. A chocked gasp escaped his mouth and then his hips were riding against the thigh that was suddenly wedged between his own. He didn't have the strength to keep his arms up any longer and they slithered down the other man's arms and held on. And then fingernails like talons were tearing down his chest and the pain, oh God, the pain...

Sick, sick, he told himself and clawed at the other man's shoulders, bringing him closer.

Legato lapped at the blood that welled to the surface, riding the waves of his muscles up and his mouth was coppery and salty with his blood when it returned, twice as hungry, twice as demanding.

"God!" he chocked and felt his body roll into Legato, from head to toe, and then thrilled when the other man mimicked him and they met somewhere deliciously in the middle. That power was wrapping around him now, tugging and pushing him simultaneously. His back seemed to sink into the cavern wall and he heard it crack and splinter behind him. And how out of control _was_ Legato for this insanity between them?

He gasped into the kiss painfully, "Stop it. You'll kill us both."

The rocks splitting apart sounded like gunshots or explosions and dust suddenly filled the air, raining down on them. Hunks of rock followed, pelting the cavern floor like rain.

"Would that be so terrible, Chapel? Dying here together?"

Wolfwood bit down on Legato's swollen lower lip and then sucked it gently. And the world was coming down, quite literally, around them. The tunnel was shaking and the sound of something wooden—scaffolding?—falling to the ground from deeper within the tunnel was followed by the sound of rock crashing down on top of that.

The kiss ended lingeringly with both of them breathless and Wolfwood shivering out of fear and more. Legato's pale hair was sprinkled with rock dust and Wolfwood knew his own hair must be white with it. It was impossible to hear anything now but the rumble and crash of the cavern collapsing around them.

He studied the other man whose golden eyes were closed as he struggled with some inner demon Wolfwood couldn't hope to understand. The flickering light from the fire danced over his face and then grew dim as the dust settled onto the glass. The entrance to the tunnel from where Legato had emerged buckled and avalanched out in a rush of stone and dirt.

Legato leaned close to him as if hypnotized, nuzzling the skin of his throat, abrading himself with the stubble there.

"You really _don't _have a fucking clue what you want," Wolfwood whispered, eyes wide. He leaned his head back, inviting the caress. He had finally realized the full extent of Legato's confusion, discovered with certainty that they were both going to suffer for it.

Legato's pulled away and his eyes snapped open. Then his fist came up as if to punch, but unfurled instead, and then long fingers wrapped around Wolfwood's neck and squeezed. He leaned in close. "And I'm not the only one. Will you hunt me forever, Chapel?"

He had to fight to speak around the fingers pressing into his windpipe. He felt his fingers twitching, hands trying to lift to either pry those fingers away or simply to touch again. "Yes."

Legato smiled his twisted smile, surged forward as if to kiss him again but stopped short, their lips close enough for their breaths to mingle. "_Good_," he growled.

One last brutal kiss, Wolfwood arched back and hard against him, Legato's tongue deep inside, no air, nothing at all but this press and invasion, the world fading away into confused sheets of cracking electricity behind his eyelids. The fingers tightening more and more. The rumble of hell coming to the surface. Picasso—Legato—was going to let him die here. No, he was going to _kill_ him before the rocks ever could and leave him here to rot.

Or maybe they _would_ die here locked together, flawed and fused.

He gasped for air, clawed at the other man's shoulders. The lantern was smashed to jagged bits and pieces by the tumbling rocks. Sudden darkness. The kiss stealing the last of his breath. Needful lips taking, taking until—

No air. No hope.

Just...

White.

The endless, painless white of nothingness.

* * *

Part XLIII:

Goodbye

* * *

Air. 

Fresh night air on his face.

He gulped it, devoured it, coughed on it and still went back for more. His chest ached, felt deflated.

He could move which was only good in a few ways and bad in many more. He tried to push up and stand, but collapsed in on himself like a house of cards. He tried again, wobbled, failed to get his arms underneath him in time and found his face pressed into the dirt, blades of grass tangling with his eyelashes. So staying where he lay was starting to sound like the best option.

Besides, the fact that he was able to move and fall down was proof of something he didn't mind savoring for a moment.

He was alive.

He had no idea how long he'd been laying there, mere meters away from the now unrecognizable entrance to the mine where collapsed rocks and dirt clogged the opening. But he was alive.

Rolling onto his back, he was greeted with the night sky, most of the stars made invisible by light pollution. It was beautiful. He drank his fill and then heard sounds from above that made him realize it was time to go.

Standing was an exercise in patience, knowing when to wait for the dizziness to fade. Putting any pressure on his leg was agony. It was either a sprain or worse. When had that happened?

He got his bearings and looked down at the grass. There was a black path leading from the rubble to him. Turning slowly, he could barely make out the trail where it continued up the slope leading down to the mine entrance. He stooped carefully and ran his hand over the grass. Bringing it close to his face, he frowned. Blood.

Legato's blood.

He imagined what the grass would look like in the morning. Summer green and deathly red seemed like a bad combination to him.

He wondered how bruised his lips were.

He wondered if Legato was thinking about the kiss even now as he struggled through the forest, bleeding a trail for the cops to follow. Was he thinking about it like he was? Like he would be, for longer than he wanted to be?

The bastard had tried to kill him.

And then saved him.

"You don't have a fucking clue what you want," he said, and fumbled for his lighter and a cigarette, not sure if he was talking about Picasso or himself.

The cigarette tasted damn good and he savored it. He'd have to take the slope back to where he'd left Vash. He wasn't sure if his legs would let him.

"Hello!" someone called down to him. "This is the JCPD. Is there somebody down there?" He squinted to the fencing at the top of the slope and saw the blue and the badge and had never been so happy to see an ex-coworker in his life.

"Officer Midvalley," he rasped, dust in his lungs, "you're a sight for sore eyes."

"Detective? Gotta tell you, that's the first time I've ever been told that line. You alive?"

"You could call it that," he mumbled back.

"Say again?"

"I said, 'Wanna give me a hand up?'"

It was a relief when the lanky officer came to join him: he was tired of screaming. Midvalley took his battered arm and lifted it over his shoulder, taking most of his weight. "Okay, let's walk."

It wasn't easy, but it was better than trying to support himself on legs that felt like jelly. Bruise covered jelly. It wasn't even funny inside his head.

"I left Vash on the top floor of that building. Is he…?"

"Don't worry: we got him and they're patching him up now for transport. Never seen a guy with that many injuries laugh so much."

"Sounds about right," he said and then added soberly, "There was a girl. A girl named Milly."

Midvalley nodded. "She telephoned us from a phone booth. We've got her back at the station."

His relief was so obvious that Midvalley gave him a comforting squeeze. "Easy, guy. It's all okay now, right? Everything's gonna be fine."

Midvalley was lying, but he decided to forgive him for it out of gratitude. Together, they somehow managed to make it to the top, struggling against loose rock and dirt that made their feet slip.

Getting over the fence was torture, but he managed, breathing heavily on the other side. To think he'd considered it a low fence at one time. Before him was a crime scene in full swing. Squad cars were parked near the entrance. The gate's lock had been cut, the lock dangling from it uselessly. It had been swung wide to admit officers, more squad cars, and an ambulance. Midvalley landed with a soft thud then came to his side again. Together they resumed their slow shuffle towards the ambulance.

Already he could hear his partner's lighthearted voice. Of course, he was flirting with the EMT. Wolfwood exchanged a knowing look with Midvalley, as if to say, "Here we go again."

Midvalley patted his back. "Can you stand without me?"

"Stand, yes. Walk, not sure."

"Give it a try, tough guy. I've gotta go stall the Chief."

"Stall?"

"He'll kill you, otherwise, won't he?"

He didn't wait for a reply, but jogged to the entrance of the building and went inside. Wolfwood moved closer to the ambulance but stayed out of sight. Its doors were open and Vash was sitting on a gurney in the back, chatting amicably.

"Believe you me, I've had my arm in a sling a dozen times and this is the finest job I've ever seen," he said, and leaned closer to the caramel-skinned woman who wore an expression of suppressed amusement. She patted him on his good arm. "Alright, Casanova, let's get you to the hospital and x-ray...everywhere," she finished, frowning first at his battered body and then at the bruises and scratches on his face.

"What in the _world_ did that?" she said, pointing at his forehead.

"Baseball bat," Wolfwood said, and stepped into Vash's line of sight.

There was no other way to say it: Vash gawked at him. The EMT looked between the two of them, and then stepped down and out of the wagon, backing away silently.

"Surprised to see me alive?" Wolfwood asked and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe to put all his weight on his good leg.

Vash's expression relaxed as he answered, "Nope. I knew you were alive. I'm just surprised you came back."

"Of course I came back. What does that even mean? Where would I have gone?"

"It's just, I thought..." Vash began, but didn't finish. "Never mind. Anyway, where were you?"

"Unconscious. Down there." He pointed behind him to the fenced-in recess in the ground. "He went into the mines. I followed. And then the whole cave came down around us.

Vash looked him up and down. "Maybe I _am_ surprised you're alive."

"Me, too."

"I mean, I heard it collapse. From _inside_. It sounded like an earthquake."

"It _felt_ like an earthquake."

"You're covered in blood."

"It's not mine."

He saw Vash squint at his chest where the blood from the scratches was seeping through and amended, "Not all of it, anyway." He ignored the glance that traveled over his swollen lips.

The awkwardness that followed was Vash waiting for him to explain, to tell him the truth. And it was Wolfwood knowing exactly what Vash wanted, and refusing to give it to him.

"Looks like they're taking you out of here," Wolfwood said too quickly when he heard the driver's side door of the ambulance open and shut.

"Um...yeah. You wanna ride with?"

"I do, but I can't. Somebody's got to be Bennigan's punching bag."

Vash's face formed a question. "And here I thought Midvalley was going out of his way to keep us _out _of trouble."

"He is, but he shouldn't have to. So...I'll catch you later?"

Vash nodded, trying to catch Wolwood's eyes. "Yeah. Okay. If they keep me over night, come by with real food soon, please."

"You got it." And then he did lift his eyes to Vash's, but only to say, "Goodbye, Vash."

Vash waited a beat and in that beat his face was stormy. It cleared immediately. "Don't. You. Dare," he said, smiling wide. "Don't even think about it."

The EMT from before came to assist him, helping him lie back and double-checking the gurney. When he was secure, she came to shut the doors with an apologetic but no-nonsense manner.

Wolfwood watched his partner's obstinate face until the doors were closed completely. He even stayed to watch the ambulance pull away and out of the complex.

"I'm sorry, partner," he said and walked away, past dozens of officers who, amazingly, all seemed to act as if he had never been there at all. They looked anywhere but at him as he walked by. In the distance, Bennigan was having what appeared to be a heated discussion with Midvalley. Wolfwood sighed and made to approach, thinking it was best to get this over with as soon as possible. Before he could, however, Midvalley noticed him and quickly moved to stand before the fuming Bennigan, effectively blocking Wolfwood from sight. He gave a tiny wave behind his back and then shooed him off, flicking his wrists.

Wolfwood took the hint.

"'G'night, Maher," he said as he passed the officer who stood nearby the gate.

"Man, that's funny," the man said, staring up at the sky. "The wind seems to be talking to me. Guess I'd tell it 'good night' and 'good luck' if it weren't my darn imagination."

Wolfwood just kept on walking, shaking his head. His car was, amazingly, exactly where he'd left it. He climbed in, drove home. It still smelled a little like beer and sick.

It wasn't as hard as he thought. Simply walking through the rooms, gathering essentials, and stowing them in a few small bags. Wolfwood packed quickly and quietly.

As if he had never been, the next morning he was gone.

Later, when they released him from the hospital, a restrained and unsmiling Vash investigated the disappearance of the man he still referred to as his partner. He learned that Wolfwood's once beloved car, the one Picasso had covered in grotesque crosses, had been sold. He'd used the money to buy a beat up motorcycle. The trail went cold after that. A few days later it was beyond the shadow of a doubt:

Nicholas D. Wolfwood had left the city of July and more than one man would never be the same for it.

* * *

Vash visited Milly, who was in the middle of moving away from her temporary apartment. She looked happy to see him, but more than a little lost. The pair stoically didn't talk about Wolfwood. He was the white elephant in the room. 

"How's your arm?" she asked instead, pointed at his sling.

"The doctor's say I have six months to live," he said, drying an imaginary tear.

"Be serious!"

"Okay, but you won't like the news," Vash said, patting his arm sadly. "This thing's coming off in two days."

Milly's eyes went wide. "Y-you can't be serious."

"I'm not. You can stop making that terrified face."

"Mr. Vash, I ought to throw something at you."

"Don't do that! I'm fragile!"

She threw a pillow out of consideration. And so it went, the two joking good-naturedly back and forth. They talked quietly for a few hours about good things and bad and then he left, kissing her on her cheek and telling her to keep in touch.

"You're leaving town?" he said, finally asking the question he'd been sitting on during the entire interview.

She smiled cheerfully, but it was somehow tragic. "Yes. I think it's time for a new start. You know. Pick up the pieces and try again?"

"I think that's a good idea. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too," she said sincerely. "But this isn't a real 'goodbye.' It's more of a 'see you soon', isn't it?"

"It better be," he said and lightly punched her on her shoulder with his good arm.

She gave a good one of her own which Vash had to fight not to wince at. She hit hard. "So...what will _you_ do?" she asked.

And that _was _the question, wasn't it? He thought about it all the way back to his apartment, turning it over like a coin in his head. It all came down to a list of things he had and didn't have, didn't it? Things he was and things he wasn't.

He wasn't a detective. He wasn't even a cop. He had an apartment he couldn't afford without a job and he didn't _have _a job. He had a cat to feed and a jeep to buy gas for.

He didn't have a good friend and confidant and partner. And he'd figured the man would do this—leave them all, leave _him_, for whatever reason—but he hadn't figured it would be so soon. Thinking about it didn't do any good, but he kept returning to the fact that he didn't have him, not anymore, and that maybe he never had.

And in his pocket, he had a business card from a federal agent.

The feds had a man in custody that looked like him. He had...questions.

He picked up the phone.

"Agent Scanlon? Yes, this is Vash Saverem. I've been considering your offer. Yes, I'd like that. No, that's not a problem. Thank you, I'll be there."

He hung up and wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing. The apartment seemed to be stifling him, pressing down on him with its emptiness. Even sitting down, he couldn't relax. He rested his head back against the sofa cushions and stared at the ceiling.

"Nicholas," he said, and realized he had nothing to add to it. So this is what it had come to and he'd never felt so lonely and lost in his life.

* * *

He'd never been to the man's office before. He'd assumed that he rather...lived at the department when he wasn't bedding some young, busty thing. But this place was...well, 'posh' would describe it. Perhaps he had celebrity patients. Wolfwood tried to imagine the kind of head problems a famous person would have and couldn't think of anything really good. He assumed they were all just depressed and bored from having too much money and nothing to do with it. So instead of buying a new car, they paid $65 a bottle for anti-depressants and Valium to sleep at night. He didn't have any proof that this was so, but it sounded right in his head. 

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes," he said.

He wasn't. Or he was in some manner, but letting the inane thoughts in his head take over the heavy, pressing ones seemed to hurt less.

"The feds were asking about you. Your partner, too."

Wolfwood didn't turn away from the window or answer. It was raining. He had a newfound hatred for the rain.

"How are your injuries healing?"

That too was met with silence. After another three questions went unanswered, the doctor tossed his pen violently down onto his clipboard where it rolled away to the floor.

"Jesus Christ, Nick. You came to me! You're not on our payroll; you're not under any obligation to talk to me! You want to talk, so talk! This is eating you up inside." He paused and ran a hand through his hair. "Please Nick...talk to me."

And maybe begging worked on him because he found his jaw unclenching and his mouth forming words.

"He...he's taken everything from me, Doc. He's a madman. A selfish, childish madman. And none of this is ever going to stop as long as we're both alive."

He turned then and looked at the doctor with bloodshot eyes. The last time he'd seen the department's psychiatrist, it had been because he'd planted his fist so far into Chief Bennigan's mouth that the man had needed stitches. Today, he was here because he hoped the doctor could help him get a hold of his sanity, which seemed to be slipping away. Funny thing is that the minute he'd walked in, he'd clamed up. Like he always did when it came to talking about himself. Even now, the words wouldn't come easily, each syllable a struggle.

"He'll never leave me alone and no one is safe while he's still out there. I have to go."

"He? You mean Picasso? But then...the man the feds took—?"

"May very well be as terrible as they say he is, but he's not the man who crucified my partner. Not the man who killed Kelly Morgan. He's not the man who—"

And there it was, that aching flash of memory, the feel of their bodies slowly, slowly melting together. Of the stone cutting into his back and the hot tongue mapping out the inside of his mouth. Legato had owned his mouth in a lifetime that began and ended with that kiss, thrusting his tongue in and out, in and out, like...like...

He jumped when the doctor's hand settled onto his shoulder.

"Nick, what _did _he do to you?"

Wolfwood balled his hands into fists. "He destroyed everything I thought I knew about…about what I thought this was. This case, this chase, this fucking game he's been playing with me. He proved to me that I'm every bit as terrible a monster as I always tried not to be."

"You're not. You're a man. A good man."

Wolfwood laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "I don't feel like it today, Doc." He fell back onto the nearest couch and dropped his head. "Not at all."

The doctor looked at him for a long time, considering. For all that he was talking defeat, Wolfwood didn't look like a man who had given up. Quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had decided on something and refused to budge. But whatever path he'd chosen, the cost was too high.

"Look at you. You haven't shaved and you look like you've been beaten. Or maybe like you're living on booze and cigarettes. Just wait until Vash finds out you've turned into a slob." Here he paused and cast a sly glance at Wolfwood. "I'm going to tell him I saw you. You know that, right?"

Wolfwood shrugged dejectedly. "I figured you might."

"And you know he's probably going to come looking for you."

"He shouldn't. Tell him _that _when you rat on me. Tell him...hell, I don't know. Tell him the truth. Tell him I'm everything he dislikes. Everything he's fought against."

The doctor cocked his head to the side. "And how am I supposed to do that, Mr. Giant Walking Secret?"

Wolfwood's expression lightened and seemed to say, "Pull the other one, it's got bells on it."

"I've never told you anything more than I've told anybody else, but you know the things I've done. It's written all over your face. For a shrink, you're a rotten liar. You know what I am."

The doctor nodded and hoped that was enough. But when Wolfwood looked up at him with steely eyes, he was forced to elaborate.

"Yes, okay. Yes. Maybe I've read up enough about it and talked to enough confused people to put the story together. To put more of your life together than you might think I should be able to. I mean, come on, you're not an open book. Hell, you _came_ here for help and advice but you won't even tell me the reason why. Nevertheless, what I know about your past doesn't change what I think about you. I respect you. The men and women of your department respect you. You're hooked at the hip to Vash and _he _respects you. Unconditionally. I mean, if anybody knows about your checkered past, it's him. But he stuck with you! Despite it all! Birds of a feather and all that, right?"

"Something like that," Wolfwood said and almost managed a smile.

"Yeah, 'something like that' is right. You two need to get it together because you're driving me crazy and I can't diagnose myself."

That actually got a chuckle from Wolfwood. "Just tell him, okay? I need him to stay away from me."

"Why? It's the last thing either of you want."

"What I want and what will keep him safe and alive are very different things. I need Vash to be okay. Which means I need him to stay as far away from me as possible."

"You're making the wrong decision. You may not think so now, but you are."

"It's the only choice I have. Maybe you're right, but I can't risk the consequences if you're wrong." Saying that, he stood and extended his hand to the doctor who took it and shook it warmly.

"I guess this is goodbye, eh, Doc?"

"It certainly feels that way. I'm sorry I couldn't help you sort this out. Take care of yourself, Nick."

"Yeah, maybe I'll try doing that for once."

Without ceremony, Wolfwood walked to the door, and then passed through it. Outside, slowly soaking to the bone in the rain, he said a silent goodbye to everything and everyone. The bike was a clunker but it would get him from point A to point B. At least for a little while. Sunglasses perched on his nose and a cigarette dangling damply from his mouth, he straddled the worn leather, opened her up and turned smoothly into the street, leaving a trail of gray smoke behind him.

By nightfall he was no longer in July. A new life started for him on the dusty highways and lonely back roads he traveled. Whether it was any better than the one he had left behind, he couldn't say.

What he'd do when he got wherever he was going, he didn't know.

In fact, the only thing he did know for certain was that Legato Bluesummers would chase him, like a hound after a fox. And if he was chasing after him, Milly was safe.

_Vash_ was safe.

Telling himself that nothing else mattered, he drove on with a stinging pain in his chest and a tainted memory on his lips that told him nothing was over yet.

To be continued...

* * *

Thanks for reading! There are some lines in this one that owe their construction to John Donne. Thanks, ol' dude. Dead poets rock. 

Future Tense, the final storyline of "needful," kicks off soon. Be here when it all gets wrapped up. Nice and neat? No, but things get spicy. You'd think a storyline called "Endings" would be the end, but...it's not. Sorry.

Up Next:

Whatever he was running from, it had already caught up with him. It was waiting, hungry and mad with it. And maybe, just maybe, he was ready for it now.  



	31. Future Tense, Part I

Author's Note: Welcome to the beginning of the end of this AU. Boom shakka-lakka.

Disclaimer: Not making any money. Probably gonna starve to death.

Warnings: AU, slash, strong sexual content, adult language, adult themes, violence, non-con, things that might be non-con if you squint at them, OOC. Mentions of child abuse. A kinky love (lust!) triangle. Kink in general. Kinky kink of a kinky nature done kinkily. More than a little sap. Wonky jumps in tense and point of view. Not beta-read and you're not surprised.

The story so far:

Nicholas D. Wolfwood lost a little bit of himself chasing the killer known as Leatherman. Three years later, he lost the rest to the killer Picasso, a beautiful psychotic named Legato Bluesummers. Despite a massive investigation, Picasso is still free. The killer's obsession with Wolfwood has endangered countless innocents and sent Wolfwood on a seemingly aimless journey. Meanwhile, Vash Saverem, who stuck by his side through the whole of it, has moved on to bigger things, acting for his own, secret goals. The story continues.

* * *

needful: Future Tense

Prologue

* * *

LEGATO

* * *

Three months from the day everything changed. 

He felt his shoulder throb. The scar was hardly new—it had a little age on it now—and yet it ached. Today was worse than usual. Maybe it was the rain. Or maybe it was failure poisoning the wound.

He'd missed him by, as near as he could tell, a day. The landlord was terribly friendly.

"These are the rooms. They cleaned up easy since he never had much by way of stuff. I haven't gotten around to washing the things he left behind yet, but if you give me a week, it'll be spick and span. Water's included with the rent but you pay for gas yourself," the man said.

Legato walked through the small but open studio apartment, looking at this and that. It was without personality in every way. Only a certain air of overall tidiness hung about space. His eyes fell on the bed in the corner.

"Oh, don't mind that. I promise to get it all cleaned up." The landlord waved his hand at the pristinely made bed. "I'm guessing he wanted to travel light, left the bedding behind."

After a moment when his guest said nothing, only stared at the bed, the landlord prompted him with, "So, what do you think? You'll take her?"

Legato's eyes slid away from the bed to the landlord. "Would you mind giving me a moment to think?"

There was something terribly persuasive about the pretty man and his otherworldly eyes. The old man nodded and gave an uncertain smile, as if he couldn't believe he was agreeing to this at all. "Why, of course. I'll just be outside. You call me when you're ready to talk business."

And with that he strolled out of the room, wondering why he felt as if his legs were moving rather without his permission.

After the door shut behind the bent old man, Legato walked to the bed in the corner. The sheets were pulled tightly and tucked under the mattress, the comforter on top smoothed and unwrinkled. He lowered himself onto it with stiff movements. Only when his back hit the mattress did he relax. The sheets smelled like him. A smoker's bed. He came home late from the bars, fell asleep in what he wore, the air of the places he'd been saturating every fiber of the cotton.

He'd slept here, dreamt here, maybe fucked here and the thought made Legato squeeze his eyes together until he saw dots behind his eyelids. A slow roll to his side brought his face closer to that smell. He pressed into it and groaned.

"Chapel," he said in a muffled voice, "where have you gone now?" Another empty apartment, another trail to follow. The smell was intoxicating, viral in persistence because it always lingered in his mind long after; the man himself a disease he would cut away if only he knew how.

It was tempting to tarry, but there was much to do.

Standing, feeling unsettled in his stomach and lower, he left. He felt...angry.

The landlord didn't know what hit him. Legato assumed he was still alive by the way he twitched, but wondered when blood loss would send him into seizures and then shock.

The blood hadn't hit his clothes and he was thankful. The walls were another story. Some had reached the ceiling. He left it that way, walked away and kept walking until his feet ached. He found a place with low lights and drunken abandon. The man he found was a little too old, but, as always, close enough.

He summoned the smell from his memory and it helped complete the picture when they were finally alone together.

Legato threaded his fingers through his dark black hair, looked into his dark blue eyes.

"Ask me what I want," he commanded.

Tonight's substitute was quick to obey and cower. His eyes showed that he was captivated by Legato's beauty, hopeful that there might be more than just tonight. He'd been so trusting and now here they were. So maybe, he was thinking, there was a chance this time around. He couldn't believe his luck, finding a man as amazing as this, one who didn't seem to mind all the things that were wrong with him. Just maybe this was it. "I...W-what do you want?" he asked.

"You," Legato answered simply. "Or someone like you."

The night was a blur and left him feeling empty. The substitute was well aware that his thoughts were not of him, but was still so kind, so gentle. And when it was all over and the man leaned up to kiss him, Legato's frustration made him lash out once more.

Because Chapel wasn't gentle and didn't want someone to be gentle with him. He was a monster and a killer and so dark and twisted inside that the only one who could ever understand him was someone just as torn. This one didn't know the first thing about pain, not like Chapel who knew everything there was to know. So he would show him.

He squeezed harder with his mind and there was a disgusting pop, like a balloon full of water bursting. His vision went red.

There would be a mess for someone to clean that day, but it wouldn't be him.

He took a shower in the stranger's bathroom and watched the red swirl down the drain. With his hands braced against the wall, he let the hot water bathe his back until it ran cold. Then he left.

Regret that his grand plan—what he'd been working on for over two years—had been so disturbed had long since faded. Having created a new pattern, he felt a sense of rightness with the status quo. All across the country were handsome, dark haired men who had only lasted the night.

Their only crime was not being the real thing. He didn't know their habits, didn't bother to watch them live their broken lives. His one-night substitutes were important because they offered him temporary release; useful because word of what he had left behind would eventually reach Chapel and the man would be forced to stop running. They were calming because they offered him a routine in exchange for the one he had lost.

Yes, eventually this would all come to a head. Eventually, he'd have what he wanted.

* * *

VASH

* * *

They were talking, really talking about things that mattered. It was almost a shock to his system to deal with honesty from this corner, from this confused situation. The doctor knew that Vash and Wolfwood had similarities, but this was the major difference: Wolfwood lied like he breathed; Vash was as honest as the day was long. And foolhardy and stubborn. 

Luckily, Vash was no longer obligated to come in for regular head checks. He came as a friend now, which meant the doctor didn't have to give him mental clearance he wasn't sure he deserved. It wasn't that Vash was loony in the head; it was that he would work himself to an early grave if he didn't slow down and reduce his stress levels. Somehow, all of this was Wolfwood's fault.

Between the two of them, they knew Wolfwood better than most in the city of July. When Vash visited his former department, the other officers reminisced about Detective Wolfwood with fondness, but Vash had confided to him that he could detect an air of caution in their voices. Sometimes Wolfwood was just a little too intense and it reflected in the way people dealt with him. It probably explained his explosive relationship with Chief Bennigan. Vash came here because he could do what he was doing now: talk about a difficult subject honestly. He needed a place to vent about his former partner, and who else was there?

"He's afraid for your safety Vash. I've told you before, he wants you to back off."

Vash cracked his knuckles. "Yeah, I just bet he does."

"Maybe you should."

"You think so too, huh?"

"He's not a safe man to be around right now. You didn't see him before he left the city, I did. He's a different man. Something's eating him up inside."

"Hmmmm," was all the reply Vash gave to that.

The Doc tilted his head to the side. "So what will you do?"

"Go after him."

"How? I heard a little bird say you're cozy with the feds."

"More than cozy."

"So how can you spare the time to chase him down when you're charming them?"

The lanky blonde actually smiled wickedly. "They want to charm _me_. They'll give me the time. They'll make all the time in the world for me."

"Vash I can see you've already made your mind up about this but...what will you do once you find him?"

And that made him go silent. He stared out the window. "First on the list? Punch him," he said.

"And then?"

"I dunno. Kiss him for an hour?"

"Ahhh. I figured as much. He might kiss _you _before you can punch _him_."

"At this point," Vash said, standing and cracking his neck, "the order doesn't even matter."

The doctor studied the tall, slender man. Skinnier than usual. Quieter. "You miss him," he said.

"Like crazy," Vash admitted and walked to the door. "Thanks for the chat."

"Anytime," the doctor answered. Outside, it looked as if it might rain, a cold rain signaling the winter's arrival. It had rained the last time he saw Wolfwood, too. There was a strange pain in his chest at the thought. The door shut softly behind Vash and the doctor stared unseeingly at the pictures on his wall. "I miss him, too," he whispered.

* * *

WOLFWOOD

* * *

The world had crashed down around them and he'd stopped existing. 

Now he's less than a figment of someone's bad imagination. Less than even a name.

He's jogging. He runs with easy, gazelle-like strides. When he slows it's deliberate, not from exhaustion or fatigue. It's as if he's outpacing competition with calculated bursts of speed. He's good, more of a long-distance runner than a sprinter, but he has power inside his wiry body, too.

His breath turns the air white at even, fleeting intervals. Then it fades away into the autumn air. Nothing about him leaves a trace of his having ever been there. He's mastered the art of disappearing.

He always moves when the feelings start. Like a brand, burning slowly through layers of skin, the sensation of being watched increases as time passes. Regardless of where he is, how well he tries to hide. The little flickers at the periphery begin soon enough and they tell him that he is not alone. Once they become so strong that he starts dreaming the same, terrible dreams, he packs up, moves out. Vanishes. That feeling is maybe a week away. Maybe another month. He can't really say.

It's night in another small town. The straight, even course he follows he has taken every night since he first found it a month ago, days after first arriving. Had it really been so recently that he'd moved here? And how many times has he drifted since that night?

The night at the mines when rock dust had rained down and the earth had roared. That night he'd found everything he'd never wanted to want in one breathless, desperate moment.

He feels pursued. He feels as if something terrible is trying to get a piece of him and that nothing will be left when it does. Whatever he's running from, perhaps it has already caught up with him. Perhaps it is already waiting, hungry and mad with it. And maybe, just maybe, he's ready for it now. Lately he's been...tired of running. The routine makes him angry, makes him feel helpless.

He keeps running, acutely aware of the day when he'll no longer be able to.

* * *

needful: Future Tense

Part I

* * *

Six months from the day. 

Marianne crossed her arms and looked disgusted with everyone in the room. "Agent Scanlon, you can't do this! Bring some newbie in, and for what?"

Agent Scanlon was a serious, impressive looking man. It was conceivable that he was unacceptable for every other kind of work save for the kind he had found with the FBI. At the moment, he looked even more serious than usual.

"He arrested Knives Millions, something we have been unable to do. We've never even gotten close to him. We'd still be chasing an endless stream of henchmen and middlemen today if not for Saverem."

"It was luck."

"He arrested him. Bottom line. Or maybe not since, more than just apprehending Millions, he also had quite a lot to do with the arrest of the Leatherman back in May."

"Leatherman wasn't our concern."

"But for awhile we were sure he was. He was _that_ dangerous." He held up his hands imploring and apologizing all at once. "Listen, we've thrown everything we have at Millions and he hasn't said a word. Not a single word. Even after that last little incident, he didn't say a thing. In a maximum security federal prison, he contrived to subdue a guard, take his gun, and put a bullet in his head and he still didn't say a _thing_."

"He'll break. We just have to lean on him the right way," Marianne protested. There were more than a few people in the room who looked at her as if they believed her hearing had gone bad.

"That man is not going to talk to you," Scanlon said evenly.

"Oh, and he'll talk to _this_ guy?" she huffed and slapped a file containing information about Vash Saverem where it sat on the table.

"We have reason to believe that he will, yes."

"Why? What is it about him that I don't know?"

"You haven't even met him yet, there's _a lot_ you don't know."

"I know what I've heard. I hear his record is questionable."

"So is yours."

"But I've never falsified records!"

From the corner, a dark haired, sharp-featured young woman spoke up. "If those records have been tampered with, I want to meet the guy who did the tampering. We're talking quality stuff here." She tapped her painted nails against her laptop screen. "Quality."

"Elizabeth, could you stick to the subject at hand here?" Marianne said exasperatedly.

"Hey, I can appreciate a fellow craftsmen, can't I?"

Marianne ignored her, turning back to Scanlon. "This task force has been specially assembled and trained to handle Knives and the threat he poses. I fail to see the difference one guy will make in a pool of all this talent." She waved her hands to indicate the team, five men and women with superior skills in every sense. They fought amongst themselves, true, but she had faith in them. Their expressions proved that they appreciated her confidence in them, but disagreed with her this time.

"Yes, you guys are good, but we're not seeing the kind of results we could be. All the years we've been together and we never accomplished what he did in a day. I want to give Saverem a chance. No, don't start again, Marianne. You can come up with another excuse or complaint and I'll have five good reasons to shoot them down. This decision is final."

Her voice could have frozen oceans when she said, "He's a kid."

"No, I'm really not."

Everyone turned to look at the new arrival. He carried a box of donuts in one hand and a coffee in the other. Steam billowed before his glasses, obscuring eyes that were actually the color of cool waters in vacation commercials. "I can guarantee I'm older than _you_, at least," he said, giving an appraising eye to the attractive blonde. She was obviously in her early twenties and still wet behind the ears in a lot of ways that Vash was not.

She was also staring at him with shock. The file had not included a photograph of the former police detective turned agent. The only way Marianne was able to forgive herself for her dumb expression was because all her teammates wore a similar one.

"Y-you…" she said and trailed off without finishing. She had no idea how to broach the issue of who, exactly, he looked like. It wasn't exact, the differences drawing her eyes as much as the similarities and allowing her to forgive anyone who didn't notice immediately who he obviously was. The darker, almost yellow shade of his blonde hair; the length of it, pulled back as it was in a short ponytail; a turn to his eyes that suggested mischief, a mole, an earring, and a tan—all things Knives did not share. She saw these variations and catalogued them.

Then she moved on to the things that were almost identical and found her mouth moving fish-like on words she couldn't manage.

"Cat got your tongue?" Vash asked jokingly. "Lucky cat," he added as an afterthought.

Marianne blushed in spite of herself. When Vash extended a hand and introduced himself, she was slow to take it. "Nice to meet you," he said. His smile was easy as if he hadn't overheard her belittling his achievements. "Call me Vash, all my friends do."

"As I said, Vash will be working with us."

Vash smiled. "Actually, I'll be leading you. Anybody want a donut?"

The confused, wide-mouthed stares he received started to make him uncomfortable after a minute. "I take that as a 'no.' Then I'll just eat them all, okay?"

* * *

Wolfwood had tried the country, and now he was back in the city. Not _his_ city, but closer than July ever had been. At least it was on the same coast. LR, north of the city of May, was the closest he had been to home since his first, last, and only visit to Bradley Monev, the Leatherman, over two years ago. 

He didn't bother to unpack anymore, but simply moved from cheap motel to cheap apartment and back again. He always made enough money on odd jobs and work as a private investigator to carry him to the next town and to buy him a meal or two. This hole in the wall was cleaner than the last and the TV worked; Wolfwood counted his blessings.

Curling up on the squeaky bed, staring up at the ceiling while the TV blared, Wolfwood thought about Vash again. It was a new trick of his. When his mind wandered too far to Legato, he forced it back to Vash. It was one thing to want something good and pure, and another thing entirely to want something like Legato. And yet...

That single, burning encounter still left him feeling anxious and unsatisfied. What had Legato been doing, kissing him, touching him? Why had he wanted it to continue?

He hissed at himself.

Vash had eyes the color of the sea and a smile like sunshine. He'd taste like both if Wolfwood ever got the chance to...

Kiss him. Kiss. Legato's kiss. Like honeyed poison.

_Dammit!_

The news was a backdrop to his disturbing thoughts. The newscaster was speaking of a missing person. Wolfwood listened with half an ear and considered turning off the set.

Something stayed his hand. It was just a feeling that made him sit up and actually look at the screen where a picture was displayed. The mother sobbed for the cameras, describing her missing son. Wolfwood almost cursed.

The most striking thing about him was his short cropped dark hair and swarthy skin. He had piercing blue eyes.

They mentioned, offhandedly, a man who had gone missing the week before. And another before that. They _all_ fit the bill. Their deaths were violent, their bodies twisted.

The commentator mentioned a copycat killer. Wolfwood didn't need to know who they thought this 'new' killer was copying.

The locations of the kidnappings and murders made him sweat. All of the victims had been from towns where he'd visited, where he'd spent the night or sometimes longer. The latest one was a state away, where he'd been only a week ago. He felt tension clamp around his spine like a vice. He looked to his suitcase, wondered how much they'd charge him for checking out early.

Quite suddenly, he remembered the feeling he'd had not so long ago, jogging along a straight country road. He was tired of running. He thought the words until they were like a chant in his mind. Then he reached for the phone.

He had avoided even saying the man's name up until now, but he felt like a gunslinger called out at high noon. He couldn't back away from this.

He HLong distance, charged to the room.

"You only call when you need something," Kaite complained. "And I'm gonna rat on you to Vash. I've got this call traced, fo' real."

Wolfwood smirked. "No, you don't."

"Maybe I don't now, but you think I can't figure out where you are?"

"No."

"Good." There was a long silence and then Kaite spoke softly. "You alive, old man?"

"Doing the best I can."

"I feels ya. Bennigan's gone freakin' crazy, worse than when you were here. We've got three new serial killers in town. One creepy guy cuts off fingers. It's just sick. Vash said he don't know what the world's comin' to."

Wolfwood wasn't so good at delicate and even worse at small talk. "So...you keep in touch with Vash?"

"Yeah, he doesn't just call me when he wants something," Kaite said pointedly.

"You curse a lot less, I think he's been a good influence on you."

"Fuck you."

"I take it back."

In total, he was only on the phone with Kaite for ten minutes, but it was a ten minutes that seemed to do him a world of good. He listened to his anecdotes about station life to the background chorus of rowdy rap music over the computer speakers and the sound of his nimble fingers navigating through restricted files. Something about the kid helped him forget about the grisly murders and kidnappings that had more to do with him than he could even cope with at the moment.

They said goodbye, Kaite oddly sober. "I know why you don't call," he said. "I know why you left."

Wolfwood sensed he wasn't meant to say anything, so he waited.

"He thinks it was for me and for Milly. And maybe some of it was, yeah? Hey, it's your thing. Whatever. Either way, I...I'm not as mad at you as I was, yo. I think I maybe get you a little, feel? I think it's cool, what you're tryin' to do. Vash maybe don't get it, but I do."

Wolfwood found his voice after a minute. "You still gonna rat on me?"

"The minute I hang up."

After the call ended, he sat and thought. He thought about Vash and Kaite and Milly. He thought about Bradley Monev, rotting in prison, drawing disturbing pictures of and calling out for a whore named Chapel in his sleep. He thought about Legato and he thought about running again. Perhaps it _was_ time to stop running. His phone call to Kaite was proof that his mind had realized as much, even if his body hadn't caught on yet.

He had a place to start thanks to the grudgingly given information the young hacker had provided. Which meant he only had one call left to make if he was going to see this through to the end. No charge to the room this time.

It was local, after all. A gruff-voiced older man answered the call after four rings.

"Heya, Chief, how goes?"

"Nick! You old, sly dog, you! Haven't heard from you in ages. I hear more about you from Michael Evergreen than I ever do from the horse's mouth," the older man said in a friendly, but curiosity-laden voice. Wolfwood had no idea how much Forrester Henry knew about what had happened in July, how badly everything had ended. If anyone deserved to know, it was Henry, but Wolfwood knew he wasn't capable of delivering bad news to the man, so he just...didn't. Didn't call, didn't write, didn't e-mail.

"Well, I've been moving around since I left the force."

"Yeah, I heard you weren't one of us anymore. You freelancing now?"

"A little, here and there." He took a breath, "Actually, that's why I called you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I need a favor."

Henry listened carefully, and then didn't hesitate to comply. Two extended holds and twenty minutes later, and Wolfwood had what he needed.

"Where'd you say you were again?" Henry asked once the horrible hold music finally clicked off.

"LR."

"Okay, I think there's a chance you can find somebody up there who knows somebody who knows somebody. You know how it goes. It might not pan out. People who go clean and mean it are the worst when it comes to blabbing, but you give it a try."

Wolfwood wrote down the information and thanked Henry.

"Not a problem, kid. Kill a green tree for ya and all that. But I can get in trouble for passing this along, ya hear? No blabbing," Henry said unnecessarily. After all, they both knew Wolfwood was good at keeping secrets. He'd learned the trick from Henry, after all, who was the king.

"No problem. I'll be as quiet as a mouse."

"And I don't want to hear your name on the news, okay?"

"Like I said: a bloody mouse."

"No shootouts or explosions or…wait, your not still paired up with Saverem, are you? Because if you are: no bar fights."

"No, I'm working solo."

"Maybe it's for the best. You two cause nothing but trouble. Keep your nose clean and call more: Sally misses you."

"Tell her...you know," Wolfwood said uncomfortably.

"I will. Take care," Henry said, his voice a little thick. Then he severed the connection. Wolfwood pocketed the small piece of paper he had made notes on stood, grabbed his coat, and headed out.

Then he walked. To the casual observer, it was an aimless stride that took him through the congested city. He didn't like LR City. There was something decidedly grungy and trashy about it. Missing was the warm weather optimism of May or the hardworking dedication of July.

He knew where to start, but there was a lot to do. He had no reason to believe that it would get done in a night. The thing was this: he could wait for Legato to catch up with him, or he could cut the legs out from under him and watch him tumble. He knew enough about the killer to know one very important thing: he didn't work alone. If he was holding the boy somewhere, he had help.

It was hours of walking, talking, negotiating before he was able to return home with a feeling of accomplishment. But if this mystery was an onion, he'd just scratched the outer skin off with toothpick. It could take weeks to do anymore and that man's life was hanging on by a thread. He didn't have time to think about how much of this was and wasn't his fault. All he could do was hope that the game hadn't changed so much that he couldn't predict what Legato wanted him to do, how he wanted him to react.

He curled onto his side, anxious and exhausted.

But he couldn't sleep. Every time sleep came close, young men who looked just like him were ripped to pieces, their heads twisted the wrong way and bodies deformed beyond recognition. In his time serving as a detective in July, he had seen too much of what Picasso could do. It was more than enough for a lifetime. He drifted again.

Then his eyes sprung open, forceful like a mousetrap. The pattern repeated until he gave up.

In the midst of thinking about so much ugliness, he found the only thing he wanted was to think about something beautiful and good.

Nothing else came close. No one else came close.

The phone was in his hand as if by magic. He'd fought doing this for so long. Too long.

It was answered on the third ring by a sleepy-voice saying, "Hello?"

Wolfwood opened his mouth, prepared to say something lighthearted like, 'So what time is it there?' or 'Been drinking, have we?' because this was Vash when he had had one or two, but what came out was silence. He shut his mouth and simply listened instead. This was almost good enough. It would have to do.

There was the sound of a bed creaking and an earring scratching against the receiver. "Hello?" Vash repeated, sounding a little more alert. Wolfwood could imagine him sitting up in bed, brows drawing down into a frown. His face would shift with understanding.

"Nick," he said at last. Wolfwood found the words, 'Yes, it's me,' in his head, but they never managed to travel down to his lips.

"Jesus, Kaite was right: you're okay," Vash said, a relieved smile in his voice. "I've tried everything, you know. Directory assistance hates me. Most federal agencies, too." He paused, waiting for a reply. When one didn't come his voice turned into a worried whisper. "Nick...are you there?"

'I'm here and I miss you,' he didn't say.

"Dammit, don't do this. _Please_ don't," Vash said and then paused. "Talk to me. Let me know you're okay."

He hung up the phone without having said a thing. Part of him wanted to believe that Vash had heard everything he hadn't said. The rest of him knew that he had just taken a step in the wrong direction. He was closer to losing him now than ever and he hated himself and congratulated himself all at once. A Vash that hated him would stay away. A Vash that hated him would be safe.

He tried not to think about how empty the room felt. And dammit, but he still couldn't sleep.

* * *

Another city, this one with the shadow of a kidnapping hanging over it. The local police were baffled. Wolfwood wasn't. 

Arranging, calling, begging, threatening—if he had done it right, this was the place. All he had to do was sit and wait. There were plenty of things to keep his attention in the meantime. A beer or two never bothered his balance too much. He could still stand. And if he could still stand, he could fight.

The bar was tidy for a bar of its kind. The dance floor was never too crowded, but most people kept their eyes trained on it. A few young studs showed off their moves with the few young ladies who had braved the cold in skimpy slink and shine. He watched them with the rest of the bar, intrigued by their abandon. An hour passed. Quite suddenly, the bar went silent. Even the hardened drinkers turned to the door. Wolfwood decided he'd better look as well.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Long blonde hair, and piercing eyes drew attention up, while the classy outfit guided them down over her clean lines at a leisurely pace. She was a little too tall and angular, but the overall picture was something any man would want a tumble with.

She stood in the entrance with a little quirk to her lips that suggested she knew very well why the room had gone silent and had planned it that way.

Wolfwood blinked when their eyes caught and he almost sucked his cigarette down his throat.

Correction: she was the most beautiful, and effective, transvestite he'd ever seen. He studied the face, removed the make-up in his mind and made the connection. Unbelievable as it seemed, he'd found who he was looking for.

She...he_...it_ blew him a kiss and winked, then sashayed away. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed the swish, swish longingly. Wolfwood smiled into his beer. Damn but he was good. He wondered how long it took to become that gorgeous with nature against you. Then there was nothing to do but wait: she'd come to him when she wanted. He got the feeling she had made herself into that kind of woman.

Time ticked by and he found himself troubled again by the things he recalled when he had time to think, as well as halfway through his third beer. Tall, blonde and transgendered strolled up. His voice was just the right mix of husky and breathy. It was the kind of voice that sent men into attention in all the most interesting ways.

"Who are they and why can't you be with them? Furthermore, if they're not already dead, how do I off them so you'll come home with me tonight?"

It was at once the most flattering and most disturbing pick-up line Wolfwood had ever heard, especially since they both knew who the other was.

"You're very good," he said, dodging the question. "You've got most of the bar fooled. Maybe everybody but me."

She preened. "Thank you. You're exactly the kind of man I want to take notice."

"To be honest, even if it had escaped me here, I'm sure I would have noticed _eventually_ anyway," Wolfwood said, dropping the idea like a fork onto a plate.

"Mmmmm, you would have and I would have _loved _every minute of being unwrapped by you. Like a present with a nice toy inside. A _very_ nice toy," she leered.

Wolfwood gave a surprised chuckle. "Buy you a drink, ma'am?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Yes, you will," she answered haughtily and sat beside him, placing her designer bag on the bar and her gloved hands on that in a graceful drape. "Call me Elle."

"Short for something?"

She looked straight ahead and her smooth brow almost wrinkled in distaste. "I think we both know it's Elendira. All those police reports say so. Mouthful, isn't it? Elle is so much classier. Easier to scream, too."

"I'll keep that in mind. What'll you have?"

"Sex on the beach," she said smoothly to the bartender—who blanched—and then cast a knowing look at Wolfwood, painted lips lifting in a smile. "Before we get down to business, let's relax. You never answered my question."

He let out a slow stream of smoke. "Which one was that?"

"The one about you being whipped for someone you can't have."

"Oh. That one. That obvious, is it?"

"Indeed. It's always the ones I want who are spoken for or holding out for that impossible lover." Her sigh was artfully dramatic. "Did they die?"

"Nope."

"Darn." Her drink arrived and she took a taste test. "Hmmm. Did you leave them or did they leave you?"

"I did the leaving."

"For another...woman?" Here she frowned and tilted her head to the side. "Now wait, that's just too much! You don't trigger gaydar at all. What was I thinking coming on so strong?" She was obviously enjoying the game far more than he, pretending this was just another hook-up. Wolfwood wondered what her voice was like when the hair and make-up disappeared. He'd never heard the interview from Elendira's arrest. That would have been one favor too many.

Wolfwood didn't answer, but something in his expression prompted a giggly, high-pitched exclamation. "Oh! I get it. It _was_ a man but not you're batting for the other team for just _anybody_, are you? Not this one! Now I'm even more intrigued. So the question begs to be asked: what was special about him and do I have it, too?"

Wolfwood cast a sideways glance at Elle. "Um...you're a little more fashionable than he ever managed."

"Point to me."

"Yeah."

She pulled off a glove and tapped her pointed chin with an expertly painted red nail. "It wasn't the cheesy, 'He's straight and I'm not' situation, was it? I've seen that movie way too many times. Read the book, too."

"No, nothing like that. It was...complicated. It's still complicated."

"Men," she said with an exhausted sigh. "After the sex is over you're left with an emotional nightmare and half the time they won't go away and just stalk you. Let me guess: you're into the mysterious type? And this one must have been _really_ special."

Wolfwood found his interest peaked by something in her voice. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, because you're ignoring all my subtle, sexy hints about you and me going somewhere more comfortable. I mean, you're choosing him over _this_?" she said, waving a hand before her body like presenting a prize on a game show.

"Hey, you're the one who noticed I was pining."

"True," she drawled and then lowered her voice, "but some things don't need to be discussed in public. We could go somewhere nice and quiet. Talk. Do more than talk."

"For the time being, here is good."

She sighed dramatically. "Very well." Dismissively she waved a hand. "Fine. You went through so much trouble to find me, I'll tell you what I know. But you have to help me out with how much _you _know. I've been hearing rumors and they aren't good. I'll be very disappointed if I find out you're the cause of all the trouble. So, let's get started. You know who I am. Or at least who I was?"

"Yes."

"Am I the only one you know?" she said with a bright smile. They might have been talking about the weather. "The only one? Of what?" he said, uncertainly.

"I mean the few, the proud, the brave: the dedicated followers of one handsome, blonde angel, Knives Millions, aliases abound. God love his twisted little heart. Anybody else cross your path?"

The first name that popped into his mind was not the right one to mention, he reasoned. Legato was too dangerous to mention casually, especially with the bad blood he could only assume existed between him and Elle. He took a step down the ladder. "Dominique?" he said tentatively.

Elle's pretty face was like sunshine. "You met her? God, she was a class act. Amazing fashion sense in a kind of leather-chic, violent way. How is the old girl?"

"Arrested, actually."

Elle sighed. "Her, too? It's like we're dropping like flies."

This caught Wolfwood's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Dominique arrested. Hell, _me _arrested. I hear they got my old buddy E.G. Mine not too long ago."

Wolfwood filed the name away for safe keeping. "You think you're being targeted?"

"I know we are. I mean, Knives is in jail. Unheard of, sweetie. He's a tough son of a bitch. With him gone, I can't see the rest of us being long for this world. Well, _I'm_ as clean as a whistle but that's another story." She winked provocatively and Wolfwood did laugh then.

"How many of you are there?"

"_Were_, you mean? There were fourteen of us; fourteen little lost children rescued by a handsome knight." She tilted her head to the side. "You're either good at playing dumb, or I guess you know less than I thought. You're not the one out to round us up?"

Wolfwood shook his head. "I'm no cop anymore. I was. And honestly, yeah, Dominique I nailed. But she was arrested in connection with another case. I wasn't targeting her because she was with you guys. Scout's Honor."

"No way were you ever a Scout."

"No, but I would have looked dashing in a barrette." This made Elle chuckle behind her hand then scrutinize him in a way that was remarkably charming.

"I _do _like you. You've got something special. So why are you kicking up dust now? You must have pulled some heavy strings to get my information."

"I did. But I'm not looking to haul you all in. I'm trying to find that boy, the one on the news."

Elle's eyes widened. "You think one of us did that?"

"Well, yeah."

She shook her head. "We're not really that kind of group. We're idealists, sure, but not without purpose. Kidnapping? Murdering all those men? None of us would—"

Here she paused. "_Which_ one of us are you looking for, did you say again?" she asked with a strangely high voice.

"I didn't, but since you're asking: Legato," he said, honestly.

She whistled. "Baby boy, you have a death wish. I forgot all about the pet psycho. It's more like I blocked it to save my sanity. He was never tame, never really under anyone's control. Not even Knives' though he tried. I hear our handsome Norman Bates doesn't roll with anyone anymore. I guess I'm not surprised. If one of us went mad dog, it would be him."

She paused for a minute, thinking. "Ah! I get it now! I wondered how you got hold of my name, but now it makes sense. If you were looking for Legato, you'd have found me sooner or later."

Wolfwood shrugged. "Turned out to be sooner with a little favor from a hacker friend. You implicated a Legato in your testimony, but the lead never panned out."

"You know, the name just kind of slipped out…in exchange for a reduced sentence. Jail was the safest place for me after that."

"So you were saying there were rumors..." he prompted.

"Oh, there was a little talk about some of the fellas looking for him. Legato has run things before when Knives was out of pocket for one reason or another. Maybe they were hoping he could step in before a nice power vacuum formed and we started in on the internal squabbling."

"If he accepted the offer, what would be the first thing he'd do?"

"He'd rack up a lot of frequent flier miles and a hell of a phone bill. We're pretty spread out and we've…diversified, so to speak. You know my old game," she said coyly, mimicking the firing of a gun. "But some of us are into worse. We don't _need _central leadership exactly, but it certainly helps. He'd have to hit a lot of places to pull things together. I'd start with the big dogs and since I'm not one of them anymore, he'd probably fly out to Denver or Inepral. From there he'd be in touch with Livio or Hoppered."

Wolfwood added additional names to the growing list of people and places to investigate. Perhaps one of them would lead to the kidnapped boy. Finding Legato, beating him to the punch, weeding out his supporters and isolating him—divide and conquer tactics might be his only chance to get the bastard.

"I've got to tell you, I've gotten more over one drink with you than I have in—"

Elle sat up straight and looked suddenly tense. She grabbed his hand. "I _really_ think we need to go. _Now_."

Wolfwood's eyes widened. Her changed posture and tone was unexpected. "Huh?"

"Hey now, handsome," she tried to say casually, but her voice wavered. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed: I have a thing for tall, dark and dangerous. Come on home with me."

"Wow, that was a sudden jump," he said worriedly. Something she had seen had obviously spooked her and he couldn't imagine what it was. He didn't like seeing fear on her pretty face. Despite all logic, the former gun-runner had grown on him.

"Not so unexpected. You know I think you're a catch. Sexy. Come on, cutie. I can help you forget about your dangerous boyfriend, the one you're pining over," she said.

It was a sensation he couldn't name, but it traveled from his gut up and settled somewhere in his chest.

_Dangerous boyfriend_, she had said.

He noticed he wasn't breathing. The lightheadedness came shortly thereafter. "I think we're talking about two different men," he said with effort.

"Are we?" Elle whispered. She looked a little like a frightened rabbit, all pale skin and wide eyes. "Please, let's go." She was suddenly in his personal space, her hands on his shoulders. She was using her body to unsettle his balance, get him to his feet. Once he was standing, she pulled on his wrists, stepping closer when he stepped away. Wolfwood was feeling confused and uncertain.

"Please," she said one last time.

"No. Stay. Talk to me. I can help you. Tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, baby boy. I'm sorry it had to be like this," Elle said, her lovely face actually falling in dismay.

"W-what?"

Elle leaned close—a little too close—and placed her hand over his damp brow. "Time to pay the piper," she said sadly and brushed her lips against his. She pulled back looked into his eyes and whispered, "Run."

And with that, she took off herself, hurrying gracefully through the writhing crowd unmolested. It was as if the dancers parted for her. She was _fast_. Unnaturally so.

"Shit," Wolfwood cursed and pursued.

He didn't have time to be mad at her. He was more than a little drunk and feeling off kilter. Something inside him was screaming. He hurried deeper into the club. Angry shouts followed him as he crashed into more than a few dancers. That should have been easier. He blamed beer. Already he was losing sight of the tail of blonde hair flickering behind Elle like a comet's fire.

He saw her turn into a narrow corridor. He hit the wall when his balance faltered. Ahead, Elle turned into a bathroom—the men's room, ironically—and spared him a genuinely apologetic look as she stole into the room.

Shaking off the fog that seemed to flood his brain, Wolfwood staggered back to his feet and hurried to the bathroom. It wasn't a large room, giving him the aggravating truth all too soon.

Elle was gone. He checked each stall and then checked the window. Bars covered the dirty glass.

"What the fuck?" he asked in a whisper. Who the hell could just disappear?

It was that exact minute that his stomach decided to remind him about the effects of running with booze sloshing around inside you up to your nose hairs.

He made it into one of the empty stalls in time. It wasn't pretty and it tasted awful. He spent the next minute rinsing his mouth at the sink. People came and went. A pair of leather-clad men stumbled into the stall farthest from him and began making huffy, sex noises soon after. He felt like a tropical storm was at full power inside him. A tropical storm of beer.

He didn't know how long he stood there, eyes averted from the mirror on the wall. He knew he looked like hell; he didn't need to see it. The few people who had entered the bathroom since he'd finished being sick left. Even the loud ones in the last stall left, leather a little out of place and tongues licking at their lips obscenely. If they'd _finished_, they'd done it very quietly. Wolfwood's drunkenness sent his mind to odd places. He envied anybody who could come silently. It usually took a gag to keep him quiet. He shuddered involuntarily: gags were the last thing he needed to recall with the night as fucked up and out of control as it was turning out to be. Yes, he knew way too much about gags, he decided. Way too much about submission and being humbled. He knew how good it was and how very, very bad.

Nobody came into the bathroom for long minutes. It gave Wolfwood too much time to think about what had spooked pretty Elle.

Dangerous boyfriend, indeed. Everything was silent save for the drip, drip of water into the sink.

And then the door suddenly creaked open and slammed shut. The footsteps on the stained floor were slow and steady. They stopped behind him. He didn't turn around. Someone moved closer, stopped a foot away from him.

"Where's the boy?" he asked without turning around, because he already knew what had made Elle run, terrified into the night.

"Safe, at the moment," the man known as Legato answered.

"And what do I have to do to keep him that way _permanently_?" Wolfwood asked and cried out on a hitching breath when Legato suddenly acted, his strange power grabbing hold of him and flinging him into a vacant stall. His fingers splayed on the tile wall as he caught himself. The fact that his shins had missed banging into the toilet was miraculous. His body was singing with something half caused by the manipulation, and half due to something else much darker.

"Stop running from me," Legato answered, reached out and slowly ran a hand down Wolfwood's back.

Wolfwood didn't pull away from it. "Is that what it will take to make you stop?" he asked. "Is _this_ what it will take?"

"I told you back in the mines, I know what I want now, Chapel."

"My name is Wolfwood."

"But you _are _Chapel. The sooner you stop pretending to be something else, the sooner we can stop playing this game." He slid his fingers under the hem of Wolfwood's shirt. Wolfwood dropped his head and shut his eyes tightly together, as if he couldn't stand to see what was being done to him. The hands splayed across his chest and his breathing turned shallow.

"I-I...stop..."

"I will when you stop wanting it."

"I don't want this."

"You're a liar," Legato answered and leaned over until they were brushing against each other.

The body behind him, he told himself, could belong to a stranger. That would make this acceptable: just another anonymous fuck in an anonymous place. The hot body came closer, pressed against his own. He tried to pull away, knowing what would happen; proved himself right when long fingers dug into his hips and yanked him back. Ass met crotch and he groaned.

"Stop," he said when hands caressed every bump of his spine, ran over his ribs, his nipples, and then down to his stomach. "No."

There was a kiss to his neck; hot breath across the short hairs there; tiny nips of teeth and then harder. Harder.

He didn't mean to rock back and feel that cock sliding against him in all the right places. He didn't _mean_ to.

He had to get away. Instead, he felt surrender open his lips, spread his legs further.

"Here." Maybe it was a question. Maybe it was a demand.

Whatever needy sound it may have been before it left his spit-slicked lips, what it got him was his pants around his ankles, his back pressed low by a heavy hand, and his own hands splayed wider against wall. Then a hard chest curved around his back, encasing him in skin covered in sweat-damp cloth. Surrounding him in man smells and man sensation. He whimpered.

"Yes..." Legato hissed.

More than likely it was the booze, but everything about the man behind him felt right: the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle-tightened narrowing of his hips down to his long thighs. Then those same thighs butted up against his own as the stranger molded his front to Wolfwood's back and pressed. It was when he kept pressing until nothing could fit between them that Wolfwood clamped down on everything inside him to keep from coming.

When had this turned from fear to arousal?

The hands were anything but gentle when they took hold of his hardening cock. He was trembling now, felt his body slowly bending in two. And he wanted to thank him, wanted to give him something to let him know that he was doing this right. This was so wrong.

He blinked and then closed his eyes because if he couldn't see, that would save him. There was salvation in ignorance so he squeezed them shut. Then, standing, arching his neck far back, he turned his face to the side, and groaned when their lips met.

Shock. Awakening. Sense memory making him sigh.

Legato had wanted this, too. More than the carnal satisfaction of skin to skin and the thrill of a good fuck in a dirty bathroom, Legato had wanted this intimacy. His thirsty tongue, thick and deep was saying as much for him.

Legato kissed him like it was everything and Wolfwood did come, panting into that hot open mouth, tunneling into the fist Legato made. Legato rode it out with him, stroking the pulsing, spurting cock in his hand. When he was spent, a wide circling hand rubbed the come into Wolfwood's stomach and hips.

It was so dirty, so wrong, that he reached down, grabbed that hand and made it press harder, hard enough that it hurt. He even helped claw the nails so that red heat glided in streaks across his abdomen. The pain made him squirm and toss his head.

"No," he said.

"Yes," Legato answered and spun Wolfwood in his arms, pushed his back against the cracked tile wall. Eyes still closed, Wolfwood pulled that mouth back to his. Everything he needed was in this kiss. Legato turned it up a degree from just rough to brutal. He felt he might gag on the forceful tongue fucking his mouth. He lapped at the saliva that escaped, winced when blood entered the equation. Teeth on his bottom lip, thumbs holding his mouth open so that the tongue could go deeper. A flickering touch of wet against the roof of his mouth.

He carded his fingers through long silken strands of hair, tilted his head further back for more. He was barely breathing through this, scared to break the kiss at all. Maybe just scared.

He got the other man's pants down by what seemed like a miracle. He wasn't sure now when things had changed once more from just brutal to violent, but he didn't protest. His shirt was ripped, his hips dragged forward. Blunt fingernails tore the skin over his ribs and he struggled just because...

Because having his hands forced over his head and held there was fucking _good_. The constriction around his wrists, the pressure building—all of it made his pulse thunder. And it was funny math: his hands over his head and held there while a pair of hands roamed freely over his chest, torturing his nipples with pinches and twists. Funny math, indeed.

He struggled more and got slapped for it and was hard and stinging. Wolfwood ached for what this man could give him. He'd fuck himself against the thigh between his legs if he had to. He'd bring himself off with friction, thinking about the throb of pain on his cheek and new scars over old ones that still made him hard when he remembered how they came to be.

Legato was whispering something to him. Was it his name over and over again? No, not _his _name. Just a name. Not who he was at all. And it didn't matter anyway because he was hardly through pretending that this was a stranger, not a killer with an obsession matched only by his own. He still had his eyes closed, after all.

Legato bit into Wolfwood's neck just as he thrust forward, cock grinding into cock. His hands fell away from Wolfwood's chest—and the torturous caress had been so good Wolfwood almost protested—but then the hands were wrapping around both their erections—Wolfwood's a little sore but hardly flagging—and he had other things to think about.

"No," Wolfwood said and tugged on the force holding his wrists. "Not like this..."

His breathy plea was understood and he found his hands free. Immediately he brought two fingers up to the other man's mouth. "Suck."

He wanted to see his fingers fucking the other man's mouth, but he couldn't look. The tongue pushed up between the fingers as if it was pushing into _him _instead and he wanted that. God he wanted that thick, molten tongue drilling into him, twisting like a dick never could.

When the other man moaned around his fingers like he wanted that too, Wolfwood's hips jerked and he was fighting orgasm again.

This was going to be quick and messy. He brought a leg up around Legato's waist—felt Legato hook an arm down to hold it—and leaned forward to support himself with his broad shoulders. Then with a practiced air, he worked two fingers into himself. Legato was watching him do this—he knew this without seeing. He hissed and had to re-adjust. The sudden reminder that he hadn't done this in awhile had come to him with a sour stab of pain in his gut. Spit just wasn't enough and this was going to hurt.

Fuck. Yes.

Wanting like he was, Wolfwood decided he was ready before he was. An awkward moment of shifting in the small stall, his leg moved, hitched up and braced against the opposite wall and then there was a painfully slow, friction filled inching forward. It was the inches that did it, the tall man's length too much in all the right ways.

It was so good he had to fight against it. He wanted...he wanted to be...

He wanted it like _that_. Hard. So he fought, said no again and again.

Which made Legato rush forward, ripping him open and seating himself inside him in one powerful motion.

Wolfwood saw the world go black and it was terrifying enough that when consciousness returned, his eyes flew open just to be certain that being taken so forcefully—almost like rape if he wanted to think about it that way and _really_ lose control—hadn't somehow blinded him.

He'd never fooled himself even once and here was the proof. This was who he had wanted and this was who had taken him like a whore against a wall in a bathroom. What he saw made him lean forward and kiss the other man, frantic and wet. He closed his eyes again anyway because…

Just because.

Something softened. The kiss had become soft.

It was wrong for this gentleness to sweep in when he was filled and hard and aching, maybe even bleeding. "Stop," he said and tried to move. Making this rough once more would clear away the confusion. The pain was pure and real, but this was just chaos.

A hand dug into his hair, yanking his head back further. The kiss stayed just as soft. He couldn't call it sweet, but there was a certain outstanding, displaced tenderness. The only forceful thing about it was the other man's relentlessness and the iron grip on his hair.

Wolfwood gave in. Submitted. He kissed him back like he was a long-time lover, a treasure, not his stalker, his rapist (because hadn't he said 'no' enough?). The hand loosened, unfolded and slid down, becoming a caress over his face. He leaned into it, whispered yes.

It was only then that the cock inside him pulled back, turning him inside out, and then stormed back in, slamming into places that made his muscles ache and his breath freeze in his chest.

It hurt. God it hurt.

He hunched into it, back curving, riding each thrust with his mouth open and his voice higher and higher with every painful collision. "Yes..." he moaned.

"You need this?"

Wolfwood answered against, and then into, the other man's mouth. "Fuck me." He waited for the stinging waves to subside from the next thrust and added, "Harder."

Incentive was the squeezing of his muscles down on the thick cock inside him, milking it for more.

And it worked.

Impossibly, the pace increased and the force of the shaft shuddering in and out of him was making his teeth rattle. His toes curled rhythmically as he dug his fingers in hard to Legato's shoulders. It was the fingers suddenly squeezing tight around his neck that made him come once more. And it was even better because Legato wasn't nearly done. He pulled out while Wolfwood's cock was still spurting, whirled him around so that he had to brace his hands flat against the wall again, and then pushed back in, fucking him from behind.

The angle was better—or worse—and Wolfwood knew he was noisy.

He thought for just a moment how strange it should have been that no one came into the bathroom. The thought that followed that one was more of a still frame in his mind than a thought; one of a crowded room filled with motionless statues that had once been dancing men and women.

He forced the image away and pushed back into the thrusts, each one more successful at making him rise up onto his toes than the one before. It _had_ been a long time. His rhythm was a little off, but that just seemed to make the man behind him hotter and harder. Suddenly arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him upright. They pair of them, locked together, stumbled forward until the side of Wolfwood's face was pressed into the wall. The position was more intimate and the man behind him caressed him by rubbing his hands over his torso and kissing his neck and shoulders.

Wolfwood's head rolled back and the back of his head connected with a broad shoulder. "I wanted you to do this," he whispered which made his silent attacker pause, jerk, and then spill inside him, still thrusting wildly.

There was a long, curious moment when neither of them moved or spoke. Finally, a softly deadly voice whispered into his ear.

"You wanted me to _make _you do this."

After long minutes of the two of them barely standing as they caught their breath, the softening cock slid out, hitting all the tender, battered parts as if it was deliberately done. He was turned around for the last time. And having done the deed, Wolfwood felt an odd sense of fatalistic acceptance.

He opened his eyes. Golden-eyed Legato was looking down at him, a troubled, worrisome expression on his face. "Kiss me again," he demanded.

Wolfwood could only obey, pulling him forward and moaning his name, "Legato."

When the kiss ended, Legato studied him seriously. "Chapel," he replied.

Wolfwood's eyes traveled over the other man's otherworldly beauty. "What the hell did I just do?" he whispered. "What the hell did _you _just do?"

"Nothing that we both didn't want."

Wolfwood's brow furrowed. "I told you once: you don't even—"

"All that changed," Legato interrupted. He lazily moved a hand over one of Wolfwood's battered nipples. "You can see that for yourself."

"So back off. You got what you wanted."

"Not yet."

Wolfwood understood more than he wanted to. "And the boy? You'll release him?"

Legato took a deep breath. "What a martyr you are. How badly were you abused that you think you can use your body like currency? I see the real reason why you ran now: you could never be anything to him when you think the way you do. Everything is pain, punishment and reward to you."

Wolfwood flinched as if he'd been punched. "Dammit, answer me: will you release him?"

Legato sighed. "Yes, I'll let him go. He was never you. He never mattered."

"Don't harm him. Don't bring my name into this," Wolfwood said, voice thick with shock and self-disgust.

"As you wish," Legato answered just as everything started to go fuzzy before Wolfwood's eyes. "I see we have an understanding. An agreement?"

"W-what are you doing to me?" Legato's face swam before his eyes and he felt his knees go watery.

"Leaving you time to think," Legato said. "Like I said: I know what I want. You're the one who needs time to figure it out. I'll give you the time you need."

Wolfwood felt himself going sideways. He never felt the ground hit and didn't have a bruise from the impact when he woke up hours later safe in his own cheap hotel room. He could only assume someone had caught him, protecting him from the pain of impact; carried him to safety.

Someone who had finally decided what they wanted, but had picked a damn funny way to go about getting it. He checked himself in the mirror. No bruises, but plenty of scars.

Legato was gone. Like a graveyard ghost after Halloween: vanished. It itched at the back of his mind that the man had gone through so much trouble to find him, only to leave at the moment of his success.

After a long, much-needed rest, he watched the news and it confirmed what he already knew—it showed him a tear-filled reunion between mother and son. Then he packed the same bags he always packed and left the town without a word to another soul.

Legato had told him to stop running. So be it. He wasn't running now: starting from today, he was hunting the man as surely as he'd been hunted all these months. They'd meet again, but it would be on his terms. What Legato would do to punish him for what he would no doubt see as Wolfwood fleeing—he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Mounting his motorcycle hurt. It hurt deliciously and made the memories circling through his head more intense. When the engine roared to life, he whispered a name.

Then he sped away, heading south. Denver would at least be warm. He'd find Legato and they'd settle this once and for all.

He wasn't running anymore. Never again.

To Be Continued

* * *

Up Next: 

_"Please," Vash begged, not sure what he was truly asking for. He didn't want the calls stop; he didn't want them to continue. He wanted...quite a lot of things he was slowly realizing he couldn't have._

Future Tense continues next time with even more kink. Thanks for reading.

Much love to Queensryche for being the background editing music for this one.


	32. Future Tense, Part 2

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of child abuse, sexual content, mentions of violence. Slower pace. OOC.

The story so far: The chase is on. Wolfwood has used his police contacts to track down former followers of the cult leader named Knives Millions in hopes of freeing a boy Legato abducted. After a charged sexual encounter with the man, the victim was released safely. Now Wolfwood has vowed to track down Legato and stop him from reorganizing the criminal empire that was once Knives Million's. Legato, however, has fled in order to leave Wolfwood time to consider what he truly wants. Across the country, Vash is using his FBI connections to pursue his own agenda.

* * *

needful: Future Tense

Part II

* * *

Seven months from the day. 

The TV was still blaring when the light hit his eyes in the early hours of the morning. In the corner a cat yawned and stretched.

The man on the TV smiled a stern, educated smile. The smartly dressed woman across from him smiled back.

"And we're back with Dean Jansen, author of 'Butterfly: Behind the Mind of a Serial Killer.' Your book deals with several of the most infamous serial killers from recent years. Now that we've talked a little about them, let's turn our attention to a killer who didn't make it into the pages of your book. By this I mean, or course, the so-called 'copycat' who has been kidnapping and brutally murdering young men across the country for the past few months."

"Yes," Jansen said shaking his head. "I've been following this case with some interest, trying to assemble a profile for him."

"So you're certain the killer is a man?"

"Without a doubt. Chapter five of my book, of course, deals with the cult leader and serial killer Knives Millions—Picasso—who was recently, and unfortunately, apprehended right before I sent the final edition of my book to the publishers for print. I'll be writing a follow up about him that should be in bookstores by next summer."

The interviewer smiled thinly. "We'll keep our eyes open for that."

"Please do. Now, in chapter seven, I refer to the formerly anonymous killer only as 'Picasso.' I believe the name and the case made national news. I think it's easy to see that what we have here is a copycat killer, but with a few interesting alterations. For example, many of the victims seem to have been male prostitutes, but Picasso targeted young, attractive women. Killing prostitutes is something we could expect from the killer known as 'Leatherman.'"

"The Leatherman. Oh, yes. Chapter...one of your book?"

"Indeed. Thank you. Essentially, I think we have a goal-oriented, copycat killer who is deliberately mixing the spree and serial killer tendencies of both Leatherman and Picasso. He's choosing victims and keeping them for extended periods of time like the Leatherman. There is a sexual aspect to the murders that recalls that case. Yet, he is murdering his victims in the style of Picasso. He also shows a kind of intelligence and cunning particular to Knives Millions. Most of the FBI who worked on the Leatherman case will tell you: Bradley Monev was sloppy. This guy is anything but."

"I see. So what do you mean by goal-oriented?"

"As I said, some victims he keeps for days. However, others he kills in what appears to be fits of rage soon after abducting them. This rage is what intrigues me the most."

"Why?"

"Because it is clear to me from his movements that he is looking for something. Or someone. Whatever it is, he is looking for it in the victims. Personally, the physical similarities of the victims—attractive, dark hair, blue eyes—has led me to believe that he is hoping to draw a particular someone out of hiding."

"And who might that be?"

Jansen looked suddenly uncomfortable. "For legal reasons, I've been asked not to discuss my theory on the air. Nevertheless, the rage killings happen, I believe, when he fails to find who he is looking for. Anger makes him lash out."

The reporter's pretty face wrinkled in a frown. "This is interesting in light of recent events. I don't know if you saw the latest news regarding this case, but one of the victims was freed. Do we have that footage?"

The scene changed to that of a sobbing woman, clinging to a young man who looked shocked and frightened. He was dark haired and blue eyed, young and attractive.

"No, I never saw his face," he was saying. "He, you know, he talked to me. He said I was lucky. Then...he let me go. Just like that. No, I don't know why. I'm just…I'm so happy to be alive." And then he broke into anguished tears and clung to his mother. The scene ended and the interview continued, both Jensen and the woman looking disturbed and thoughtful.

"Do you have any theories as to why this victim was released?"

Jansen shifted in his seat, warming to the topic. "It's quite possible we're dealing with a different attacker in this instance. If not, then we have to ask ourselves what the copycat hoped to gain with this move. If my theory is correct, he had reason to believe this strategy would give him what he's looking for, whatever is driving him to kill in the first place."

"So you're saying that, if we want to predict where this copycat moves next, we have to know what he's looking for?"

"Indeed. That is the key to the entire case."

"Well, I certainly hope the FBI is watching this."

"As do I," Jansen said, surreptitiously holding up his book for the world to see. A pillow went soaring at the set, which teetered dangerously. The cat meowed a questioning meow. Vash apologized to it, then turned off the TV with a sardonic expression on his face.

"Yeah, we're watching," he said with a yawn. "We're watching and your book sucks." The cat meowed again, this time in agreement, and then curled up on the pillow.

"Time to go to work," Vash said. "I'll shower there." He stood and headed out the door with the air of someone carrying two worlds on his back, unsure of how to push them off on someone else.

* * *

The newest special agent at the July FBI field office, Vash Saverem, had left a trail of shock and awe behind him during his first month at the bureau. Fresh from the police force and a rushed training course at the academy, people had expected him to make mistakes. He hadn't. Then again, people had expected him to be just another guy, too. 

He wasn't.

The men and women who had administered his physical exams called Agent Scanlon and spoke to him in either hushed, frightened voices or in high-pitched screams of ecstatic disbelief.

Chuck at the shooting range had been silent and listless for a day. When asked what was the matter, he shook his head silently and then staggered off like a lost man in the desert. Later, he showed Scanlon the target Vash had used during his exam. He had saved it because, he said, he'd never seen anything like it before. It boasted a single hole.

"This," Chuck whispered, "was from three rounds."

Scanlon frowned at the perfect hole, up and to the right on the target's shoulder. Non-fatal. "You mean...he hit the same spot...every time?"

"He didn't miss even once. Didn't move a fraction. I would have said this was impossible as far as ballistics go a month ago. He's...he's not human."

As for the man himself, if he noticed the extra attention he attracted, he took it all in stride with a goofy smile and an easy manner. He made friends like he breathed, learned the ropes quickly, and fit in rather well, even if he was always just a little different. No one had a problem with him except for the men and women of the task force he was slanted to lead on a mission soon.

In the first few days in the field office, he'd gotten acquainted with the unique task force. Scanlon called them 'The Team' with a hint of pride in his voice. After all, he'd picked them all himself when the order came down to treat Knives Millions as a threat to national security.

The team was an interesting collection of men and women. The oldest was a graying and mustachioed man named Earl Bostalk who spoke softly and plainly. He was the most seasoned of them all, a former member of the Hostage Rescue Team who said he'd had enough. He got along well with everyone, but was stubborn and inflexible. Even when he was wrong.

The youngest was short and big-eyed Adelaide Moore, a former under-cover agent who didn't like to talk about her past. Calling her 'Adelaide' was a surefire way to get yourself punched. She only answered to "Moore" and did so with a smile. She sometimes made jokes about the mafia, or told mafia jokes, and most of the team got the idea that it wasn't good to ask for details about where she'd heard them. Moore was friendly, sometimes quiet, but usually full of energy and charm. When it came to grunt work done without complaint, nobody had Moore beat. Yet, she often commented that working with the team was the easiest job she'd ever had, which caused everyone in the room to look vaguely uncomfortable.

Elizabeth Gates was their technical wizard. Sturdy and sharp featured, she spent only enough time on her appearance to be noticed without looking as if she wanted to be noticed. The effect was stunning. She'd been snatched from CITAC and said she was happy to be done with them. When asked why, she said paranoia was catching and that she'd gone to bed after one o'clock every night scouring her computer for privacy threats. Now, she said, she slept like a baby. She was sometimes a little gruff, but mainly kindhearted.

Dark haired, sad eyed Ryan Day was a former field agent operating out of Inepral, but he didn't talk about it much. He'd been picked for the task force for his calm demeanor, his amazing accuracy with a gun, and his knowledge of many of the men and women they were pursuing. He had their security files memorized, he said without a hint of a smile. Ryan was cold and sometimes looked at the world with a contemptuous sneer, but no one could deny the fact that he was a hard worker. A bit of a thrill junky, he'd gotten the reputation of being fearless to the point of recklessness.

Lenny Descartes ("Just 'Descartes' if you know what's good for ya") was their bruiser. He was a former cop from Brooklyn who'd joined the feds because he thought it looked like a good time, "From all those shows, you know?" Descartes was big in the freak show sense of the term and used his weight to great advantage in a fight. Mostly, he fought dirty. He was a pretty simple guy to understand, a lot like officer Midvalley from July in how uncomplicated he was. At the end of the day, Descartes wanted a beer and a broad and not necessarily in that order.

Last was Marianne Hunter who was the closest thing they had to a vice leader after Agent Scanlon. She was by the books and no-nonsense. Tall, blonde and beautiful, she wasn't above using her looks for an edge. All the rest of the time, she walked around in faded jeans and a t-shirt, slurping coffee as if it could grant eternal youth. Marianne could be distant, even with her own team, and not a one of them knew where she'd come from or why she was picked to join the task force. She seemed disinclined to ever fill in the gaps. When you caught her on a good day, she could be open and even chatty. Good days were in short supply.

They had all approached Vash with different levels of caution those first few weeks of debriefing and team training. There had been uncomfortable moments when it was clear that Vash was just too different, too accustomed to a system that they didn't employ. Too accustomed to working with a partner—singular—and not six other men and women. After a time, most of them had warmed to the lighthearted joker that Vash Saverem seemed to be. Only one of them had been, and remained, openly hostile.

Marianne stormed after Scanlon, determined to be heard. "You can't _give _him a task force to lead. He's not even trained properly. We don't work well with him."

"You work just fine with him. He's professional and pulls his own weight. Furthermore, he left the police force seven months ago. He had plenty of time to be trained. You've seen him in action during group training, you know this already."

"Well...aren't you suspicious about his loyalties?" she asked, dodging around agents coming from the opposite direction. "I mean, he goes down there to see him, right? He talks to him."

"He's been asked to. I think you can understand our reasoning. If it bears fruit, you might even approve."

"What do they talk about? I want to see the tapes."

"If there's cause for you to see them, you'll see them."

"I don't like this. It disturbs me. It disturbs the team. He's nothing but trouble and I refuse to work with him."

"Then I'll take your resignation and your badge tomorrow," Scanlon said, filling his coffee cup at the machine.

"You're not serious!"

He was already moving again, answering her over his shoulder. "I am, but you're not. You're not really going to give up your career because you don't like the guy."

Marianne stepped in front of Scanlon to stop his progress. "Don't make this sound like I'm being irrational. Don't make this sound like I have some personal grudge against Saverem."

"You _don't_ have a personal grudge against Saverem?" Scanlon asked, lifting an eyebrow and sipping at his coffee with impatience.

"No! I don't! I filed a report yesterday. It detailed my opinion on the current situation quite clearly."

"You filed a complaint disguised as a report."

"And did you read it?"

Scanlon smiled. "Yes." He took a long sip. "And then I threw it away."

Marianne's mouth moved on words that never came. She flushed pink when she was mad.

"Agent Hunter, I understand where you're coming from, but work with me. We're going after a big fish in two days, and I need your support. We've been working on this for a month now, let's get it right. Day's intel and Vash's ingenuity are going to see this through, but you're who the team looks to when they want to know how to act, what to do. You flip out on me now, and I lose them all." He smiled blandly. "Let's try to get along, okay?"

Marianne watched him walk away, her jaw flexing angrily. She imagined that she understood how homeless people feel, ignored in the subways and streets by everyone. She took a deep, calming breath and approached the situation from another standpoint. A wicked part of her knew, absolutely knew, that Vash Saverem was going to screw things up badly. After that, they could send him back to his hole in the wall department and things could go back to the way they'd been before. All she had to do was wait and give him enough rope to hang himself with.

* * *

When the exact opposite happened, when they arrested a former follower of Knives named Gregory Hoppered responsible for at least three domestic bombings, Marianne had to swallow back quite a lot of terrible things she wanted to say, and take a bite of humble pie, as well. 

"Good work," she said to the team at debriefing. She grudgingly looked at Vash and nodded once. She could acknowledge good work, but it didn't mean more than that. To her endless irritation, Vash smiled warmly at her and said, "Nice job, Agent Hunter. You can cover me anytime."

Descartes wailed with laughter. "That's what I thought the first time I saw her, too. 'Please, oh, please cover me.'" Vash flushed red, but his eyes glinted mischief. His apology, however, was sincere. "That came out sounding wrong. Sorry." Marianne turned away, unusually pink herself.

That first, smoothly executed and successful operation made people whisper when Vash wasn't around, awe and respect in their tones. It wasn't unusual to see two agents hunched over their lunches, discussing in hushed voices the man across the room.

"They go from being jinxed to pulling off an arrest like that and...well...I'm just saying. Is it just luck? I don't think it is. I heard things about him. I hear he died and came back from the dead. I got a buddy with the JCPD, says he saw it with his own eyes. Died and came back. Like Jesus."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I'm telling you: Jesus."

"I dunno about the Jesus stuff, but I hear he's arrested like fifteen serial killers all by himself. I hear the detective in that show is based on him. You know the one. They came and interviewed him and everything after he arrested that strangler out in LR."

"That wasn't him. That was a woman."

"No it wasn't. It was this guy. You go ask him."

"No, you go ask him. He's, you know, a big deal. He's too cool to talk to me. And he looks like he wants to be alone."

"He do that a lot? Just sit there? By himself?"

"Yeah. He can be, what's the word? dark. You know?"

Vash remained patient in the face of the flying rumors and gossip. And yes, sometimes he was quiet and unavailable, but the times when he was personable and kind had most people forgiving him his odd moments of darkness. And he was good at what he did.

The second arrest only heightened interest in Vash. The team had never been very successful, handicapped time and time again by bad luck—from suspects skipping town the day before they went after them, to witnesses disappearing and vital evidence being tampered with. It had gotten to the point where Scanlon had begun to believe they had a rat. But Vash seemed to be blessed with the devil's luck.

The team made yet another arrest two days later, causing a whirlwind of gossip. It was confirmed by the ones who'd been there: Vash had taken point and carried the most difficult part of the operation off without firing a single shot. The target had been a gang responsible for bringing in weapons across the border, weapons they'd been more than happy to use when their hideout was surrounded. Things had gotten hairy, the task force had won, and several arrests had been made, which was all that most people knew.

Descartes was heard to mumble over a beer with agency friends one night that this wasn't the first time Vash had pulled a 'Crazy stunt like that.' The gossipers wanted to ask the man himself about how he'd managed to pull in that many armed suspects without so much as a warning shot. Unfortunately, he went missing on sick leave, and was unavailable for the third degree.

Over coffee in the break room or eating together in the mess, people wondered what the price of going into a sting operation with no intention of using your piece cost you. But Vash seemed in the pink when he returned a week later. He drank as much coffee as ever, joked with his co-workers, and seemed so relaxed that the rumors that said he'd been tagged died down soon enough. Who, after all, was up and moving with a bounce in their step one week after being shot?

When asked that very question about his newest agent, Scanlon would shrug and say, "Who indeed?"

The fourth operation he led didn't go as well, which made people wonder if Vash luck had finally run dry. A suspected drug dealer with connections to the gang they'd taken in slipped through their fingers just as it seemed they were about to snag him. Later Scanlon reprimanded them for sloppy teamwork. Vash he excluded from the worst of his fury. He sat in the corner, stormily quiet and contemplative, while his team cast looks at him that showed a mix of worry and confusion.

Marianne stood and gestured with frustration. "But it's not our fault! It's like he knew we were coming!"

"Squeak, squeak," said Elizabeth, painted nails drumming on the table.

"Let's not start with the accusations again," Earl sighed. "I've said it before: if there's a rat, it'll out sooner than later."

"Earl's right," Scanlon said.

Elizabeth refused to back down. "Sir, you have to be reasonable. I'm not alone on this. Elizabeth is with me on this. So is Descartes. We need to investigate this further."

Scanlon didn't want to hear it, though it was obvious he too was thinking that their infamous bad luck had returned.

Later that night, he found Vash on the roof, a place he often went to think. To the casual observer he was looking out at the city, but Scanlon got the feeling that he wasn't seeing anything at all.

"You're not still upset about that operation, are you? I mean, you're new to all of this and three out of four isn't bad at all."

"And yet it's still not good enough."

"Come on Vash, what do you think, here? You're doing a good job. Thanks to you, things have turned around. We've never been this close to taking down the operations Knives left behind before. And we'll get today's perp eventually."

Vash was silent for a moment and then smiled. "Thanks."

"We're going out for drinks tonight, you're welcome to come."

Vash smiled again. "I think I'll pass."

"Come on, they're warming up to you," Scanlon said, already certain for the reason behind Vash's refusal. "Marianne's an ice goddess, you shouldn't worry about her. The rest of the team is ready to get to know you better. Come on."

"Thanks, really. But I'll pass."

Scanlon sighed. "Okay, have it your way. You going in to see him tomorrow?"

"Yes," Vash said without any hint of emotion.

"You free after?"

"Yeah, I think."

"Mind coming down to the med center? I want to talk over your last test results with the doctors."

Vash took his time saying, "Sure. No problem."

Scanlon left shortly after and Vash continued to look out over the city that was cooler now in the winter months, but still comfortably warm. After another ten minutes, he too left, climbing into his jeep and driving off.

* * *

Vash tossed his keys on the table. They landed with a crash that sent the cat storming out from underneath, meowing his outrage. 

All was apparently forgiven half an hour later when he licked his chops clean of the kitty food he'd been given and curled up against Vash's side. There was nothing good on TV so Vash settled for a popular FBI drama. He knew he did this too often, turn into a vegetable in front of the TV, but it was the easiest way to escape from some of the pain he'd been living with.

The show wasn't bad, but bizarrely over-the-top. The main character screamed a lot. He screamed at terrorists, he screamed at mysterious people on the phone, all of whom seemed to want him dead. Vash liked the actor, but he wondered if he was under pressure from directors to scream more. It was very likely that the real FBI would fall apart if everyone behaved like this guy.

The FBI. He thought about the organization for a minute, blocking out the TV screen and the room around him. He felt comfortable at the field office, which was maybe strange. Nevertheless, outside of the teamwork, there was nothing about the FBI that wasn't similar in some way to working as a cop in May, or even July. They were a bit stricter and believed their own hype sometimes, but he could deal.

Time had moved so quickly since everything had changed that night at the mines. Training at the FBI academy had been one of those times in his life that felt farther away than it had rights to. He recalled now that he hadn't studied a single thing. Twenty-one weeks of intensive training and he had passed every course with his eyes closed. That was...normal.

Somewhere.

On Mars, perhaps.

The cat nudged him with his flat head, apparently reprimanding him for thinking dark thoughts. He stroked it and scratched under its chin.

So here he was, Special Agent Saverem. What a laugh. The work was even interesting, which was just as well since it was also purposeful. He knew what he was doing, he just wondered if anyone else did.

Sometimes he got the feeling that Agent Scanlon, the agent who had poached him from the police force in the first place, looked at him with suspicion. If anyone had reason to accuse Vash of anything other than fierce loyalty to his employers, it was Scanlon. Vash almost shrugged. None of that mattered. Scanlon wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't question him, and wouldn't punish him. They had an understanding.

The team was another story. They didn't trust him, of that he was certain. They had learned to respect him because he'd earned it, even after today's failure. Nobody had blamed him for the suspect's disappearing act. The fight that had followed had sounded like an old one with Marianne growling about a rat and Scanlon acting like she didn't have ample proof, which she did. Still, even if they respected him, they had no reason to consider Vash on the level.

He figured he had the cause of their distrust narrowed down. It was more than just looking like the man they referred to as a 'cult leader' on the news. The physical similarities were just the tip of the iceberg. The big, hulking rest of the problem, the continental glacier part of the problem, was that sometimes he _was_ like Knives. Sometimes he was quiet and intense and withdrawn and moody. And in a fight, no matter how useful he was, he knew he was a little inhuman. More than a little.

What had surprised him one day, was that these things that were a little dark about him weren't new. That day he'd looked in the mirror and seen eyes that were cruel and maybe even tinted with simmering rage. He'd realized then that, yeah, Wolfwood had known.

Everyone else had been completely fooled by the sunny smiles and selfless kindness that seemed to be the whole of him. Vash had been the nice guy that people opened up to and trusted. Wolfwood had seen right through all of it. And he, in kind, had stopped pretending around Wolfwood. He'd simply given up and _been _Vash, which had apparently been what Wolfwood had wanted all along. They'd battled about everything from what to eat to who had the right to decide who lived and who died. Neither of them had been completely truthful about anything, and somehow it hadn't mattered. Not really.

And when was the last time he'd had a good argument with someone? Even Marianne preferred to do things the passive aggressive way, sending in reports that demanded his resignation or relocation or assassination by firing squad for all he knew. Scanlon quietly sat by and let him do whatever he wanted, so long as Vash was of use.

The rest of the agency was so convinced he was Mr. Sunshine that even the chance to forge another friendship like the one he'd shared with Wolfwood was missing. And did he want a replacement? The answer was no. He wanted the real thing back. With the pictures blurring on the screen before him and his mind a jumble of thoughts, he felt his eyelids turn heavy.

But no matter how lonely he felt, this was all he could do. He had to keep working. He had to keep trying. Tonight, the phone was quiet. It was just the screaming agent on TV and the gently purring cat by his side. He fell asleep that way, and in the morning, the news told him about murder and rape and destruction. So he got up and went to work, locking the door softly behind him.

* * *

Not far from the city of Inepral, hidden away in the dark recesses of the industrial jungle where only the more sinister of deals were made, two men were waiting. The first and smallest of them, gave a shudder and stomped his feet. 

He was nervous and it showed in the way sweat dripped down his face even in the cold. No matter how he pushed and smoothed his long black hair, it seemed to fall back into his eyes, sticking to his forehead and making him itch. The taller man beside him was relaxed, leaning his big body against the wall with his arms crossed. They were an odd, mismatched pair but often worked together for all that they didn't work _well _together. This made them aware of each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies. The tall man known as Rai Dei was certain that his companion was giddy with nerves and uncertainty. On the other hand, E.G. Mine, the shorter, thin one of the pair, knew that Rai Dei hadn't even considered that there was reason to be afraid.

E.G. Mine knew better. "This is a mistake. He's not with us anymore."

"He is what he is; he can do what he does. That is all I care about at the moment."

E.G.'s beady eyes swung back and forth across the dark warehouse. Shafts of wavering moonlight stabbed into the shadows, but only enough to illuminate the hulking mountains of boxes all around them. The main source of light came from the square and high cargo door before them, once used to receive trucks of freight. That light, however, was winter cold and eerie.

"But he's freakin' crazy. There's stuff goin' on in his head we can't even hope to figure out, yeah? The gerbil's alive but it's on crack and the wheel tilts to the freakin' right. The lights are on but they're cheap Wal-Mart brand and they flicker off and on when it rains. Oh, and like, nobody's home, dude. You saw what he did to those girls, yeah? If he doesn't like what we're up to, he's going to—"

"I suggest you keep that thought to yourself," Rai Dei said, standing up straight for the first time. "He's here."

From the wide door at the end of the loading dock, Legato Bluesummers appeared. The pale light at his back stretched his shadow out dramatically. Its crisp lines touched E.G.'s feet before he could even see Legato's features and it gave him a chill.

Once the man's face was in view, E.G. couldn't stop staring at it. The draw of his features was the contradiction they inherited: he was flawless on the outside, and a menace of corruption on the inside. E.G. had never seen anything so beautiful and never obeyed and respected anyone as much. Except, of course, for Knives.

Unlike Knives, however, he feared what Legato had become; feared it to the marrow of his bones.

He blinked, recalling the reason he was here at all. Everything he did now was for Knives, for the chance to return him to where he belonged. He looked at Rai Dei and knew that his companion was striving to remain calm and cool before Legato.

Dressed in black from his toes to his throat, Legato looked lean and deadly. A long white coat that draped his frame swept along his ankles as he walked, like fog swirling around him, like he was floating. E.G. felt his head shake: no, nothing about Legato was human and he'd been a fool for ever thinking that there might be. He wasn't like the rest of them.

Legato stopped before Rai Dei. "Rai Dei," he greeted coldly.

Rai Dei, in answer, bowed low gracefully. "Legato, it is a pleasure to see you again."

"Legato," E.G. added, bowing belatedly. He swallowed heavily when Legato turned to him.

"Ah, E.G. Mine? I had heard you were captured."

"I escaped. Barely, no thanks to him," he said with bitterness and jerked his head at Rai Dei.

Rai Dei scoffed. "I can't always be your back up, and I can't always lead them off the scent. Sometimes you have to learn to take care of yourself."

"With you it seems like most times," E.G. mumbled.

Legato appeared bored with the exchange and flexed his fingers at his hip. "What is this about? Why did you call for me? You know I no longer work for Knives and I no longer have any interest in leading you in his place."

"Please," Rai Dei said, holding up his hands imploringly. "We heard you were working with some of the old gang up near LR. You know things are far from good for us. We're being hunted down like animals."

Legato looked up and away. "By whom?"

A picture was presented. Rai Dei offered it to him like a servant to a king. "By this man."

Vash Saverem looked up at him from a common police academy photo, hair short and face youthful and clean. Oddly, seeing the picture of the man did not recall emotions that Legato thought it might. He hated Vash—hated him deeply and wanted him to suffer. The photograph, however, made him remember the soft feel of his lips and the metallic taste of his mouth, his own blood staining the corners. He'd had him at his mercy, tied up and bound and it had been surprisingly good. It had been a different kind of pleasure from that of ripping someone scarred and broken on the inside into pieces, revealing their flaws for all to see.

He remembered vividly what it had felt like then, to rape his mouth with his tongue, to have been given a chance to truly, truly bring Wolfwood to his knees. Hurting Vash—more than that, taking something from Vash that Wolfwood himself had wanted—Legato had felt unbelievable power. Vash had fought the kiss, had tried to turn his head away. That had only made the victory sweeter.

No, Vash hadn't been the real thing, just like that first hooker he had torn to shreds had not been the real thing. He'd been dark-haired and blue-eyed and smelled like sex. Those had been the only similarities. Vash had had even fewer with his blonde hair and innocence. But, at the time, he had been a tolerable substitute for what Legato hadn't even known he wanted.

And having that first real kiss that night in the mines? Fucking him against the wall in that dark club, kissing him so hard he bled? It made him think of heat and light and true sensation, like jumping into cool salt water, like being slapped for the first time. Like a burn from a cigarette or the lightheaded weakness that comes from holding your breath too long. It was a knife against skin, an unwanted touch from someone stronger than you who holds you down and makes you take it. It was mouthfuls of honey after a diet of ash.

Kissing Chapel had forced him to acknowledge that he'd been dead to the world for too long, simply because it had made him feel alive.

Kissing Vash had merely been the awakening inside that led him to kissing Chapel. And that, in turn, had led to more. Much more. The events were connected in his mind, inseparable. In an instant, he knew the truth of what would happen if he had a hand in Vash's downfall. Everything he'd gained would crumble and fall.

Legato kept his face impassive as he looked at the photo. "And who is he?"

"His name is Vash Saverem. The bureau has just hired him on," Rai Dei said with a secretive smile. "They went through a lot of trouble to do it, too. They'll say it's because he's highly trained and experienced. Or they'll say that to anyone not on the needs-to-know list, anyway. But those on the inside know he's become the key agent in the task force, the one assembled to capture the followers of Knives Millions." He said the word 'followers' with a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

"Tell him the rest," E.G. said, suddenly sounding manic and excited.

"We have access to him. You know who I am, I believe. Well my current position allows me certain privileges. He's protected, but not invulnerable. We can get to him."

"And when we do," E.G. added, "we can exchange him for the boss. We can get him back!"

Another pause. "And this has _what _to do with me?" Legato asked.

Rai Dei pulled back as if he had been slapped. The tension in the room escalated without warning. It was in Rai Dei's expression: he'd always respected Legato, but knew that Knives' former favorite had been the one whose desertion had ultimately led to Knives' capture. Had Legato stayed by his side and protected him as he was supposed to, perhaps their Master would not have been taken from them.

"Don't you see? We need Knives. Before, you were there to lead us when he could not. But now that you have abandoned us, things have changed. This man," Rai Dei said and waved at the picture, "has _made _them change. He's targeting us and he's not like the others. He can actually win. They already have Dominique, Hoppered and Grey. They're narrowing in on others. How long before they come for me? Or for you?"

E.G. nodded his shaggy head. "You're the greatest of us, man. Knives was even greater, but they took him from us like nothin'. They'll come for you next, but it doesn't have to end this way."

Legato looked at him steadily, which made E.G. shudder. As if he had seen nothing of interest, Legato turned back to Rai Dei. "What are you suggesting?"

Rai Dei once again appeared unfazed as he answered, "I'm suggesting that things go back to the way they were. Return to us. We can offer you a certain amount of protection. In return, we only ask that you help us save Knives. Lead us like you have before, give us the edge we need to do this properly."

"So it is to be an exchange: his life for the Masters." Legato tilted his head to the side. "And this one, what becomes of him?"

"He doesn't matter, only Knives is important," Rai Dei said with fervor.

"You intend to kill him?"

"We'll do what's necessary. If it comes to that, I'll consider it a tolerable loss if Knives is back with us."

Legato thought, he calculated.

E.G. fidgeted. Rai Dei's eyes never strayed from Legato's face, searching for signs of hope, for a reason to believe.

It was all for nothing.

"Targeting this man is a foolish idea. I think you would be well advised to leave him alone."

Rai Dei looked shocked and then angry. "Are you saying you're just going to abandon the Master? You were supposed to be the one he—"

"Things change."

E.G. looked as if he had no idea what to think. He was turning his head back and forth between his partner and his former leader in confusion. "You won't help us?" he asked, sounding rather childish.

"I never said I wouldn't help you."

"But not with this?" Rai Dei asked.

"No, not with this."

Even Rai Dei wasn't a good enough actor to hide his disappointment. "Will you stand in our way?"

Legato was thinking again. Finally, he shook his head. "I won't stop you, but I will warn you. That man is more than he seems. One way or the other, he should not be trifled with lightly. You said it yourself: he is special to the FBI. I think you will find that he is valuable to more dangerous men by far. You claim to have connections at the bureau? Perhaps you should discuss your plan with the Master. He may have quite a few things to say."

Rai Dei laughed and threw up his hands. "I get it now! I see what this is! You are actually afraid of him! The Great Legato, reduced to this! You. Are. A coward," Rai Dei hissed and then instantly regretted it as he felt every muscle in his arms betray him. His hands clawed and wrapped around his own throat. "Gah!" he chocked out before he could make no sound at all. The veins of his hands popped out as the pressure increased.

"Do not try my patience," Legato said quietly.

E.G. staggered towards his partner who was turning purple. "Please, let him go! You're killing him."

"Only teaching him a lesson."

"I think he learned _real _good, okay?"

Legato crossed his arms and Rai Dei fell to the ground in a heap. Legato looked disgusted.

"You want your little rag-tag group up and working again? Fine, I don't mind. You're not strong enough to organize them, but I am. As for that man, leave him alone. You're out of your league and I think you know what I mean."

He turned, his coat flaring out in a wide circle, and strode off. "I'll be in touch."

"Where are you going?" E.G. shouted from his position, crouching beside Rai Dei's prone and crumpled body.

"If you're really going to attempt to re-establish our hold on this city, I don't think you're capable of handling it on your own. I'll send you some help."

And with that he was gone, once again just a terrifying specter in E.G.'s mind. He sighed in relief. Rai Dei was unconscious before him and it was an easy thing to push his dark hair off his face. His hand was shaking and he found he was afraid twice over. Part of it was Legato. The rest was all about Rai Dei.

"I wish you wouldn't try so hard to get yourself killed all the time. If you go, what happens to me?" He pushed at his partner's hair again, resting his hand on his forehead a little longer than necessary. "Don't do that. Don't…leave."

The cold crept into his bones while he sat there, waiting for Rai Dei to wake again so they could talk or fight or plan.

And wait for Legato, the Master's favorite, to send his 'help.'

* * *

Eight months from the day. 

Vash had seen maximum security before. Back in May, before the transfer came through from the top, he'd been on a few interviews with Wolfwood, preparing for trials. With Wolfwood accustomed to them, Vash hadn't considered the places so terrible. He'd led Vash through them like a tour guide, at ease and collected. Vash had adopted a similar approach to the buildings themselves. The prisoners had always been another story. They had been menacing and menaced. Many of those guys had been done up in chains so heavy they hurt your ears when they hit the ground or clanged together. They'd shuffled everywhere, feet bound together. They'd glared at the world, faces creased that way. And if they were even too dangerous to transport easily, the rooms where they were kept might as well have been Fort Knox for all the luck you'd have getting in there. Maximum security, another way to say hell.

This prison blew all of that away on the scale of over-the-top. More guards, more checks, more precautions and questions and distrust. It wasn't without reason: it held the most deadly men in America. Men who had nothing left to lose and didn't mind dragging you down to hell with them.

The prisoner known as Knives Millions had already attempted escape twice and taken out five guards in the process. They were considering upping the federal prison's security budget for him alone. They had talked about the proposal on the news and screaming politicians had debated endlessly since the first draft.

Vash rolled his eyes as they patted him down. The routine was starting to get on his nerves. The thing that bothered him the most was the assumption that everyone who entered was guilty of something until they were proven innocent. There were metal detectors at the door because the prison officials had no reason to believe you weren't carrying a weapon until the machine said you weren't. The worst thing about it, Vash realized, was that if he really wanted to do some damage, he could.

With or without a gun.

He passed through breezily, though he was still nervous to come here. They led him deep into the belly of the prison to a section that looked like something from the movie "Independence Day," space-aged and shiny. Through numerous checkpoints and past dozens of unsmiling guards, he followed his even more unfriendly escorts to the small, glass fronted cell set far away from anything living.

The glass was bulletproof and close to five inches thick. The man behind it was more than worth the excess.

Sometimes, Vash wondered why he was wasting his time here. Knives didn't tell him anything helpful. He wondered if the fact that he spoke to him when he attacked or ignored everyone else should be counted as a victory. Still, everything Knives said to him was in clipped, cold tones and he never answered a question he didn't feel like answering. He certainly never inquired about Vash who he regarded with a strange, disappointed superiority. Mostly, he spent his time insulting the world and everyone in it. Vash felt as if they knew each other no better than they had before his arrest, when they were merely enemies. Brothers, he assumed, were supposed to be _more _no matter how different they seemed.

Vash moved closer to the glass when it was indicated safe to do so by the guards. He stood before it, looking in impassively.

Across the way, his twin closed the book he'd been reading on the bed, strolled to the glass and did the same.

"Come to see me again? So soon?"

"What can I say: it's a living."

At the mention of his job, Knives soured. "Well since you're here, you might as well sit down, you fool."

Vash didn't seem to hear or care about the insult. He sat and regarded what was becoming a familiar face, so like and unlike his own. "And how are we today?" he asked, not without patient humor.

"Hmph. You go where they tell you, like a dog. You do what they tell you. Do you eat what the tell you to? Dress, think, live? Do you have a list of approved fucks, too? Don't you see? You're a tool to them. I've been in this situation before, I've seen it before."

"Not this again. I'm _working_ with the FBI," Vash said, shaking his head. "We work _together. _Besides, don't you want to talk about something else today? I think you insulted my job the last time. And the time before that."

"They're using you. You honestly don't know what you are, do you?" Knives hissed and strolled closer to the glass. He placed his palm against the surface. "Come here." It wasn't the first time Knives had hinted that Vash was more than he seemed. He always threatened that one day he would show Vash what he meant. For Vash, who had begun to notice the differences between himself and others all on his own, the prospect of Knives showing him even more was at once tempting and frightening.

Mesmerized by the other man's calm, confident voice, Vash stood. Without being told to, he placed his palm against Knives'. The glass separating their fingers might not have been there at all for all the difference it made: Vash was certain of body heat against his fingertips. He was aware of more than that.

It was a flickering, clear light dancing in the periphery of his vision. He blinked once and it flared like fireworks.

He gasped, surprised. "What was that?"

"Don't ask questions; just feel," Knives whispered. He closed his eyes and Vash had nothing to do but join him. He simply let go, felt like he was falling, came to all at once. Where there should have been dark, there was an ocean of clear, untainted blue. The sky was like a renaissance painting, perfect and distant. The air smelled like rose petals and jasmine.

Before him, dressed in white trousers and a diaphanous white shirt that rippled in the wind around his long body, Knives stood with his back to him, hands at his side and his chin raised to the sunlight. This was a free man, not chained or disgraced in a prison uniform. A free man, strong and confident.

Vash took a step forward on the water and it rippled out in perfect rings. One after the other slipped further and further out until they nudged Knives' foot. His brother spun on his heels. He was a graceful swirl of white and blonde. "Welcome home, brother," he said with a smile.

Vash stumbled back, hit the chair and went over. He landed hard, but didn't care. Several staggering crab-walks backwards, he finally stopped and gawked at the man behind the glass. It was disconcerting to find himself back in the dark prison with no perfumed breezes or painted skies. The guards were rushing to him, but he sent them back to their positions, shaking his head and holding up a hand. "No, no, it's okay. It's cool," he said. He looked at his brother, scrutinizing. Nothing seemed different. He was in his prison uniform, behind glass, trapped.

"Knives, what the hell _was_ that?"

But Knives was too busy staring at him with a strange, surprised expression on his face to answer. "You…glow," he said and then shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you." He sat down suddenly as if he weighed more than he appeared. "You came to talk, yes? So talk to me." His manner had softened quite inexplicably.

Vash nodded, swallowing. He righted the chair and sat down once again, albeit shakily. "Um...What do you want to talk about?"

And the smile was real this time, not in some dream landscape. Somehow it was sad and even lonely. Knives' eyes danced crystal blue. "You," he said.

* * *

Ten months from the day. 

She made it into the locker by dragging her feet with stubborn purpose. She was beat. Sparring was not her strongest suit. She was an investigator and a leader and a damn good one, she knew. The fisticuffs she preferred to leave to someone else.

She lifted her head, seeking her locker, and pulled up short. It would forever remain a still frame in her mind: Vash without his shirt on, one towel around his waist and another scrubbing in his hair. He was flushed from a hot shower. Pale and long and lean and wet.

Besides all the muscle, there was plenty to see.

There weren't _that _many of them, but there were enough to draw her attention. Scars, both big and small, spanned his body. One of them—on his arm—was obviously a dog bite. With his hair pulled off his face, she could see the faded scar on his forehead. His wrists were surrounded by what looked like healed rope burns and his ribs sat a little strangely, as if they'd been broken. A gunshot wound that was hardly old wrinkled and puckered his skin.

He bore the speculation poorly, covering up nervously and apologizing profusely.

Once she could speak, she waved his words away. "You don't have to say I'm sorry. This locker room is coed."

When Vash still appeared ill at ease, she realized she was still wearing a horrified expression. It took a moment to draw her eyebrows up and soften her eyes. It took another minute to lift them to Vash's open, patient face.

"You...They're" she tried, but couldn't finish.

"They're pretty terrible," he said with a small smile, "but believe me, I know a guy with worse."

And it was a combination of things that disturbed her: the realization that he was not the skinny, stick of a guy he seemed and that what could have been perfect was scarred. His shy tolerance of her reaction, the dripping ends of his long hair, the dance of blue in his eyes. She swallowed and Vash smiled.

It was all she could do to accept his invitation to eat lunch together.

* * *

Vash felt comfortable here now, and he was certain he shouldn't. It was disconcerting to think about later on, in his car or at the office: _I'm on friendly terms with a criminal_. But while he was sitting before the glass, talking to his brother, he was at ease like he hadn't been in quite awhile. It wasn't like talking to Wolfwood who had disagreed with a lot of what Vash believed but had been willing to bend and adapt to work with him. 

Knives was inflexible. When they argued—and they did quite a lot—the argument was not settled by compromise as it often had been with Wolfwood, but with resignation on Vash's part.

And then Knives would somehow sense his disquiet and change the subject to literature or film or music. Then they would discuss these things with such warmth that Vash almost forgot that they had argued at all. It had been this way for weeks. He was accustomed to Knives, even if he couldn't understand him.

Today, Knives was especially cordial. He even joked. Though he didn't laugh himself, he seemed to enjoy watching Vash grin and chuckle. Everything had changed since that day, even the way Knives looked at him: not like a bug he could squash, but like an equal.

Vash opened his eyes after a particularly long laugh and found his brother staring at him intently.

"Hey, what's that look for?" he asked, still smiling.

"Nothing. Only, you truly do like to laugh, don't you?"

"It makes life worth living."

"Other things are worth more."

Vash shook his head. "I can't think of _too_ many things better than laughing," he said with a well-timed eyebrow-waggle. "But I know one for sure."

Knives stared at him in silence for several moments and then asked dryly, "Did you just make a vulgar joke?"

"Yes, Knives. Yes, I just made a vulgar joke." Vash sighed. "I just made a vulgar joke, and you didn't laugh."

"No. No, I didn't."

"Do you ever think that you might?"

"Might what?"

"Laugh, I mean. At anything."

Knives paused to think and then said, surprisingly, "Why do you come here? It's part of your job, of course. They expect you to crack the big mystery, to persuade me to reveal things that I don't want to. That much, I know. But correct me if I'm wrong, but it's no longer such a chore for you, is it? What I mean is why do _you_,personally, come to see me?"

Vash rubbed at the back of his neck. "I don't know. I guess I like talking to you."

Knives tilted his head quizzically. "And if they told you I was a lost cause, that there was nothing to be gained by talking to me and that you no longer _had _to visit, would you still come?"

Vash shrugged. "Honestly? Yes."

"I see," Knives said. His expression was impossible for Vash to read so he contented himself with just watching him. It was bizarre to see someone who resembled him so greatly look so grave and serious.

At long last Knives spoke. "Come here. The guards don't need to hear this."

Vash obeyed and moved close to the glass. Knives stood as well and mirrored his position. "I would tell you a million things, brother," he whispered, almost too quietly for Vash to hear. "But I do not appreciate being watched and spied on. The things I have to say I will only say to you."

"I can't ask them to turn the cameras off, you know that."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what?"

"Hold out your hand," he said and did so himself, pressing his palm to the glass and letting his fingers splay.

Vash looked instantly reluctant. It had been so long since that first and only time when something unique shared between him had sent him into a beautiful but disquieting world. "I don't know," he mumbled, shaking his head.

"Trust me. You won't regret it."

Vash sighed and held out his hand. The heat flowed through the glass again. He sighed a little when the warmth went up his arm and spiraled down his spine like champagne bubbles. Closing his eyes, he prepared himself for the fact that he had no idea what he was getting into.

But despite his worries, it proved to be the same strange vista that Knives had shown him before—still beautiful, still lush and somehow chilled.

"Come closer," Knives' voice sounded through the crisp air. Vash spun around and found his brother walking across the crystal blue of the water towards him. Taking a tentative step, he moved forward to meet him halfway.

Knives embraced him. "Vash, how good of you to join me."

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere only we can go. We can talk here, and anything said here, stays here."

Vash swallowed. "Talk about _what_?"

"I believe you have questions. I have answers."

Vash shook his head. "You won't want to answer the questions I have. You've said as much before. You'd have to betray everyone. All those people who followed you."

Knives' expression was calculating. "Imagine it as a kind of strategy on my part. I want something from you and feel that I can only get it by gaining your trust. If betraying my followers is what it takes to obtain what I want, I consider it a sacrifice worth making."

Vash shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was his brother really so manipulative and cold? At times he seemed so human and now _this_. How could he expect to gain one man's trust by proving his willingness to betray another's?

"What could I possibly have to give you? I can't magic up a shorter sentence for someone with life."

"That we'll discuss at another time. For now, ask me a question. Ask me _anything_." He sat down gracefully, right in the center of the expanse of water and gestured for Vash to join him.

Vash did, finding it less unusual than he thought he probably should. His mind was fighting with the puzzle of his brother, trying to understand what he was attempting. It was also formulating questions. Only one mattered.

"The man who did all the killings in July that you're serving time for. I want his name."

"Ahhh. Straight to the point then, I see." Knives smiled a long, thin smile. "Legato Bluesummers," he said without hesitation.

* * *

Eleven months from the day. He thought about that night as little as possible. Or tried to, anyway. 

Many of his fantasies centered around it. He'd been, essentially, raped in a bathroom and it was the most indelible and pleasing sexual encounter of his life.

He figured he was one of the more twisted people on the planet, running a distant third to Charles Manson.

First on the list was possibly Hitler, but he didn't want to think about that in detail.

Especially in light of the fact that, when he wasn't thinking about _that _sweet torture, he was punishing himself with another. One infinitely more dangerous than barely anonymous sex in a bathroom.

He was an idiot, but...

At least he was consistent.

"Hello?" the familiar, nostalgic, ache-inducing voice said on the other line.

He said nothing back, just held the phone and listened to the quiet, even breaths. A feeling of calm crammed its way between the fear and loathing in his chest, like a dove settling gently between piles of filth, white wings spread to cover up the worst of it. The feeling was like being addicted to a drug, one he only let himself take when he couldn't resist anymore and his fingers boldly dialed the number for him.

It swirled through his veins, potent and heady. He could exhale properly. Hell, he could even think and focus. Heavy inhale in, wispy exhale out. Again, again, lower, deeper.

The silence lasted exactly one minute.

The voice returned. "Come home," it said simply.

A few things to say popped into Wolfwood's head. They all died on his tongue, as if dissolved by acid. Yet, as if he _had_ said something, the other man spoke again.

"Well, thanks for remembering today, anyway. It means a lot." And then he severed the connection. Wolfwood sat there with the phone for minutes he never counted, until his ears were ringing with the dial tone. Even that noxious sound couldn't erase the cure from his mind, the drug from his veins. It was simply what Vash was: everything he'd never deserved to have, but couldn't help wanting.

Wolfwood fell asleep to the sounds of deep, expectant breathing, but not his own. Memory played on repeat for months after one of these phone calls, and his dreams were often set to that perfectly toxic rhythm. Tonight was no different.

The hours passed.

He wasn't fully awake. But the ache between his legs let him know what he needed to do. He slicked his hand with the moisture he found beading at the top of his cock, turned on his side and began. Half asleep, sense memory had him doing what he liked, as hard as he liked it. His dark hair was already damp as was the pillow and he realized he'd been tossing and turning in his sleep, sweating and hard from his dreams.

He'd been dreaming about something hot and sexual. Something…

He sighed when it started to feel good enough to lead him on the path to completion.

He'd been caught doing this once when he was a boy. The punishment had been painful. Is that what the dream had been about? No, it had been something else, something even better. But what?

Coming closer, squeezing his eyes tight. His mouth open and panting, he reached for it. A little closer, a little closer. He had it, the image he needed.

He screamed a name and came, hips restlessly moving his cock into his hand. His back popped as he arched and the fingers of his free hand clawed at the sheets. Coming down was like dying and being reborn. He fell asleep again almost immediately, covered in sweat and come.

The next morning, he was a mess and he had to change the sheets. He stood in the shower and thought about what had awakened him, the dream that had made him want to touch himself in the first place. It escaped him.

And even when he fought for it, he couldn't recall whose name he had screamed.

* * *

He no longer had to touch the glass at all. Vash had learned and Knives rejoiced in that. Sitting in his chair, in his prison behind the glass, body relaxed, he could reach out and he was there. He could feel around in the ether at any time, and find his brother who truly beckoned to him, shining as he did. Vash never understood what he meant when he tried to explain, but it was true: Vash was like candle light. Like sunshine. 

They met as they always did, in the calm place. He had discovered it so long ago, back at the orphanage when he needed to escape the feel of all those hands on him, the dirty men and their hot breath against his neck. It had been a refuge then. Now it was a vacation from the monotony of life here. On his own, he could still visit as often as he liked. Recently he found that he didn't want to.

He had tried a few times to find the calm he had once had here on his own, but it felt lonely now if Vash couldn't join him. It was no longer just his place; it was theirs. This should have disturbed him more, he imagined, than it did.

Vash didn't always come to visit the prison when he was supposed to. There had been an entire week when he went missing with no explanation. He'd almost been bothered enough to ask the guard, but had fought against such a thing. They'd start sending someone else to talk to him if they thought he was willing to cooperate. He didn't want someone else.

Vash was quiet today.

He curled up on his side and stared across the gently rippling water. Knives lay down beside him, looked into his eyes. They didn't focus on him for quite awhile. When they did, they immediately crinkled with one of his false smiles.

"You never get any browner," Vash said. "All this time in a magical, sun-filled paradise and you're still as white as a sheet. How does that work?"

"Very funny," Knives said dryly. What was bothering his brother was often too easy to see. Today, nothing other than Nicholas D. Wolfwood could explain the pained, distant expression on his brother's kind face. This was the one subject Vash refused to talk about properly. There seemed to be entire chunks of the story that he kept tucked away inside him, out of reach. It made Knives' teeth clench and his tone harsh as he asked, "If you ever find him, what makes you think things can be the way they were?"

Vash didn't play dumb. He shrugged, a sad looking gesture. "I dunno. Hope?"

"I've told you before, have I not? He's not your friend. He's not good for you. He doesn't think like you do."

Vash looked at Knives with more attention than he had since he arrived. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are willing, sometimes unreasonably so, to find the good in every situation and individual. To give second chances. Your former partner is not. Things are simple for him: someone is good or someone is bad and you deal with them appropriately. Even if you become a monster yourself in the process, that is the way you must do it."

"You're wrong," Vash said quickly. "He's not like that. He could never be a monster." Knives smiled one of his rare smiles, but it wasn't a good thing. He lifted his hand and almost touched Vash's cheek. He let it fall away again.

"You just proved my point," he said on a whisper.

They turned to business then, discussing as always these days what Knives was willing to tell. All was forgiven by the end of the session, but the worried tension in Vash's eyes never faded.

* * *

Another operation. Another chance to succeed. 

Or fail.

Halfway from the field office, Vash had the van take a strange route. Ryan was the first to notice.

"Where are we going?"

"Detour," was all Vash replied. The streets turned grayer, the buildings squatter.

"This wasn't in the plan," Descartes muttered with something like approval in his voice. Marianne also had a secret smile.

Soon they were pulling up at the end of a short, gloomy looking street. Vash turned to his team. "Okay, we do the operation, as planned, but we do it here."

"Here?" Moore said, eyes wide.

"Sir, with all do respect," Ryan tried, but Vash wasn't listening. He pressed his earpiece and concentrated. "We have the go-ahead. Move out."

Not only was the suspect there, he had no chance to run. Taken unawares, he surrendered without so much as drawing a weapon. Unlike every other operation they'd had so far, the suspect was truly surprised to see them: he'd been watching TV, lounging around in a t-shirt and shorts. Dangerous men all looked the same in their pajamas, Vash reasoned.

The suspect was cuffed efficiently by Marianne while the rest of the team swept the house. Vash knelt down before the quivering man. "I'm Special Agent Vash Saverem, and you're under arrest." He noticed that, not for the first time, the suspect was staring at him. Once, when Vash paused during the rights, he stuttered, "M-master?" with confusion on his lined face.

Vash shook his head. "Wrong guy."

They worked quickly and with a practiced air. "Got some prints over here," Earl said, crouching near a low cabinet door. "They're not his. They could pan out."

"Or they could just be the landlord's, or the cleaning lady's," Ryan said. "Why don't you let me handle prints?"

"No, I think I've got this one. And I'm pretty sure they'll pan out," Earl said with a hint of cat-that-ate-the-cream. He swung the door open. Inside the weaponry dripped like jewels in a palace. Descartes whistled. "Bet you I know where these beauts came from," he sing-songed.

Vash crossed his arms and cocked his hip to the side, looking calm and confident. "Descartes, Marianne, I'll leave those to you. Bag 'em up, track 'em down. Get ballistics in here. Earl, I trust you with those prints. You don't need Elizabeth's help, but call her in if you want. Moore," he said, turning to the slight girl, "find what you can find, you have run of the house. You know how to look. Then get on the horn to Elizabeth, I need her busy with anything you think she needs to be busy with."

There was a collective, bizarre feeling of warmth in the room. It was the feeling of being trusted. They hadn't been fiercely given commands, and yet everyone felt quite certain that they had to do what they'd been asked to do. Not only that, they felt that they were glad to be doing it. This, Marianne realized as she set to the guns with fervor, was the difference between herself and Vash. She had been an efficient team leader, but had been poor at delegating duties. She lacked the kind of trust it took to allow someone to do the job for her. Vash, on the other hand, had nothing but faith. He knew, individually and as a team, what they could do and knew how to put their strengths to good use.

She cast a secretive look his way. Damn, but she'd been wrong about him. He wasn't a kid. That, she thought, studying the long line of his back, was a man.

She hid a smile and kept working.

Ryan strode across the room and stood before Vash stiffly. "Sir, what am I supposed to be doing?"

"Your job," Earl said in a gruff mumble around the pen in his mouth. Marianne stifled a laugh.

Vash smiled warmly at the fuming agent before him. "You come with me. We're heading back with the perp. You drive, I'll ride in the back with him."

And there was nothing Ryan could say. He nodded curtly and exited the house. Descartes looked up at Vash with a glint in his eyes. "Tell him not to bang up the van, yeah?"

"Can do," Vash said and left the house in what he was certain were capable hands.

Later that night, after debriefing, the atmosphere of the team was decidedly bouncy. Only Ryan declined to join them for drinks at the local watering hole.

"Easiest mission I've ever had," Moore admitted with a satisfied smile. "Boss man," she said to Vash, "You've outdone yourself. We watched the tapes and Millions didn't say a thing about that location. Hell, he hardly spoke to you at all. We were clear on the other side of town from where we thought he would be and we took him in like nothing. How did you know?"

"Instinct," Vash said with a laugh.

"And you didn't tell a soul about the change of plan?" Earl asked from behind a beer. He looked thoughtfully at his team leader. "Got a reason why?"

"It just plum slipped my mind," Vash said and took a swig of his own. Moore gave him a drunken smile. "I really do like you. I like how you think."

"The feeling is totally mutual, my dear," Vash said with a bad English accent. He laughed with Moore, then looked up to see Marianne's eyes trained on him. He smiled at her and went suddenly sober when she smiled back.

* * *

Marianne stumbled drunkenly into Vash and caught herself by wrapping her arms around his neck. He didn't act as if her weight bothered him at all. On most nights, the hallway to her apartment seemed too long. Tonight, it was too short by far. 

She used Vash as a ballast while she opened her door.

"This is infuriating. You had as much as me and you're steady as a freakin'…steady thing," she hiccupped and then belted out a throaty laugh.

"I used to roll with a guy who could drink a bar full of Irishmen under the table. I got used to it, but I think my liver hates me."

"Your liver might but...I-I don't." It seemed to take Herculean effort for her to admit that. It was the closest thing to an apology that Marianne had ever managed in her adult life.

"Good to know," Vash replied.

Marianne studied her feet. "Awful gentlemanly of you, walking me home like that."

"Who says I'm being gentlemanly? You never know: I could be out to steal all your silverware."

"I don't have any."

"Then your bonsai collection is mine."

She finally got the door open, but almost fell as it opened inwards. Vash was there to catch her again and maybe he always would be. She let herself be swung around. He was there for her, warm and...and...

And why the hell not?

On tiptoe, she found his mouth, which tasted like the whisky chaser he'd somehow managed to keep down. His kiss was soft, gentle, and almost friendly. She could even say that he was bearing her kiss with marked patience. She let it continue, hoping it might warm, but it never did. At last she pulled away and hid her head against his chest, cheeks aflame. "I'm such an idiot."

"No, you're not. I'm...sorry."

"Okay, well, that makes me feel _lots _better." Her words caught on a sob.

"It should. If I weren't waiting around for someone, we'd be naked right now and you'd be getting to see my scars up close."

That made her lift her head. She squinted at him. "So...you like me—or at least want to bang me—but I don't have a chance 'cause of some other broad?"

"Broad? I'll be sure to pass that on," Vash said with a secret smile. Marianne was too busy trying to put things together in her favor that she didn't question it. She tilted her head back to look at his face and said, "If you're waiting around for her to come to her senses and pick you, what's wrong with me in the meantime? She'd never have to know. It's her loss." And it was the alcohol talking because she never settled for second best when she was sober. She'd never settled for second best in her life. She stifled the voice that told her she'd willingly take second best without a drop of liquor in her if it got her Vash.

"They'd never know, but I would," Vash said with a sigh.

"You're going to stop living entirely while you wait for her? You're going to turn off everything that makes you a man? Would she want that for you?" She swallowed and searched his face. "Even if she knew about tonight, would it matter?"

Vash closed his eyes and thought. "No, probably not."

"Good," she said and kissed him again.

* * *

The water glimmered and the clouds drifted overhead. Today, Vash and Knives stretched out side by side, staring up at the sky. Vash was not at ease. 

"I took Leonof into custody. I'm sorry."

Knives was silent for a moment. "You were able to capture him using what I told you?"

"Yes. I feel like…like I'm betraying your trust."

Knives rolled onto his side and stared down at Vash. "I knew you would arrest him and I told you anyway. Don't worry." He smiled his pointed smile and then blinked slowly. "You want to ask me something, yes?"

"You can always tell."

"I'm your brother. Ask, you know I'll answer."

"The price for all this information is probably steep, isn't it?"

"No. In fact, you'll find you're already paying it."

"How?" Vash asked, frown lines appearing around his eyes. "I haven't even tried to get you a re-trial or...anything."

"You visit me, you talk to me. For now, that's enough."

"Oh," Vash said and felt heat rising to his cheeks. "Right. Thanks."

"Your question?"

"Yeah. That. It's just..." he tried and then sat up, looking off into the distance. "You told me his name. I got some leads from it. A trial where his name popped up. Rumors. Speculation. But I want to know where he _is_. I need to find him."

"Why?"

"You know why," Vash said on a sigh.

"Because he is going to be wherever your former partner is?"

"Yes."

"And what exactly does Nicholas D. Wolfwood mean to you?"

Vash bit his lip. "We have unfinished business."

"I see," Knives said, frowning. "I can not tell you for certain where he is, but I can give you a place to start."

"That's good enough," Vash said, smiling a relieved smile. "Thank you."

"No thanks required; that's what brothers are for," Knives said and took his hand. It felt like the most natural thing in the world for Vash to give it a squeeze. He lay back down beside Knives. Yes, it felt perfectly natural to keep hold of that hand, and rest beside his brother.

* * *

It was a bad habit. In the phone booth, his fingers dialed the number as if it was all they wanted to do. 

That voice again (now his only connection to the past), this time unsurprised. "Hello."

And this time there were no requests; there were no thanks or complaints.

This time they just listened to one and other, the sound of absence and distance pretending to be the opposite. Wolfwood could only stare at the grim cityscape before him, wondering what the other man could see. Perhaps he was staring at a wall or a TV or just a sloppy dinner in some cheap diner. He was half a country away, but Wolfwood could pretend that nothing, absolutely nothing, separated them. He could pretend quite a lot of things, actually.

Somehow, halfway through the silence, something about the even rhythm of the other man's breathing made Wolfwood stifle a groan. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the phone booth and fought to keep his own breathing light and steady. He failed miserably and his breathing sped. He almost said a name.

Wolfwood could hear a ruffle of fabric; a catch of breath that could have meant a million things, but probably only meant one. He bit his lip, wanting to stay, to listen, to encourage.

"Dammit, you've got to stop doing this," Vash breathed. "It's driving me crazy," he admitted. "This is driving me crazy."

Wolfwood wondered if Vash could hear the hitch in his shallow breathing.

"Do you know how this feels?" Vash asked and waited. "I can _hear_ you but I can't...I never could...we never_...Nick_," he said suddenly and Wolfwood had to squeeze his eyes together at the images that sound made. What was Vash doing? What did it look like? How did it _feel_?

_"Please," _Vash begged. It was as if he wasn't sure what he was truly asking for, as if he didn't want the calls to stop and didn't want them to continue. As if he wanted quite a lot of things he was slowly realizing he couldn't have.

"This is hell," he said on a sob that was half a moan.

Wolfwood's mouth fell open and his body trembled. He felt his hand drift low of its own volition. He was thinking, _yes, we could do this. We could have something, even if it's not very much._

Instead he hung up, stumbled back to his cheap hotel.

He fell asleep hard.

Woke up hard. Jacked off like a maniac in the shower and still felt nothing even close to satisfaction.

He wanted to call again, but he wouldn't.

Next year, he decided. He'd call next year.

To Be continued...

* * *

Thanks for reading! 

Up next:

_He took another swig and glared at the phone. "Come on. Call, you jerk. You always call when I don't want you to, so call now when I need you."_

_Clenching his fist so tightly that the longneck trembled in his hand he shouted, "Call, dammit!"_

_There was a long moment of silence._

_And then the phone rang._

Stay tuned for part three of the longest ending in the history of fanfiction.


	33. Future Tense, Part 3

The story so far: Vash and Knives are growing closer as brothers, despite the fact that they are on opposite sides of the law. Wolfwood has vowed to pursue Legato no matter the cost.

Warning: Violence, strong language, mentions of child abuse, strong sexual content, non-consensual sex. Maybe some timeline troubles. Not beta-read. Shock, horror, outrage!

Author's note: Get your pillows and blankets, this is going to be a long one. You're about to read over five chapters of story that have been edited together for your reading pleasure. Just shy of 40,000 words. This is the end, folks. Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.

* * *

needful: Future Tense

Part III

* * *

Two years from the day. July City. 

The cat wouldn't come near him. He couldn't blame it.

Rather than be taken into custody by a "traitor," the man had put a bullet to his head and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Vash didn't know if bravery or cowardice led a man to take his own life, he only knew he disapproved either way. And that was putting it mildly.

Scanlon didn't behave as if he considered it too great a loss. Especially with the man's accomplices under arrest and loose with their talk and names. They had a million places to start looking, a million possible avenues. No, Scanlon wasn't too torn up about one dead criminal. Of course, he frequently inquired about Vash's wellbeing. Physically, he was fine. His head was a mess.

Beer helped. Thanks to the magical potion that was beer, his mind could swim away to better places. Sometimes while his head was lolling from side to side, he saw glimpses of the paradise he shared with Knives. He even got close enough to hear his brother's startled utterance of, "Vash?"

He shook his head and pulled away. Paradise dimmed. He didn't want to talk to his brother who was responsible for all the trouble in the first place. What he wanted was a confidante, one in particular.

He took another swig and glared at the phone. "Come on. Call, you jerk. You always call when I don't want you to, so call now when I need you to."

Clenching his fist so tightly that the longneck trembled in his hand he shouted, "Call, dammit!"

There was a long moment of silence.

And then the phone rang.

He answered it with remarkable calm. Placing the receiver to his ear, he settled back into the cushions of the couch.

"I couldn't save someone today," he said softly. A reply was the last thing he expected anymore. He rolled his head to the side and brushed his cheek against the cushion's soft fabric. "I'm feeling pretty alone here, buddy." The breathing on the other end was so quiet that the background noises of sirens and traffic overpowered it. So he was in a city this time.

"I need to talk to you. There's a lot going on now. I don't understand any of it. I need—" he began and swallowed. The beer made him feel foolish enough to say it. But he wouldn't.

There was a long, slow sigh from the other end. "You can't save the world," a voice said roughly. "Don't beat yourself up, kid."

Vash felt his mouth slide open on its own. Wolfwood had replied for the first time in two years of infrequent, frustrating phone calls that helped in some ways and made everything worse in others. His voice was just as gruff and smoky and it made Vash jerk to hear it after so long.

And with that, Wolfwood hung up and Vash found he was glaring at the phone again. So the advice had been absolute crap, but Wolfwood had spoken. Luckily, the stagnate situation between them upset him so bad that he stopped thinking about his suicide case and started thinking about exactly how _hard _he was going to make that punch when he finally saw Wolfwood again.

Yes, he was going to give Nicholas D. Wolfwood a shiner the size of Texas.

* * *

The next day. Augusta City. 

They'd taken the task force on the road south to follow the leads from their last operation. They didn't talk about the events of a week before. They didn't talk about the haunted, dead look in their leader's eyes.

Instead, the team made jokes about him being so far away from his brother.

"Don't it bother you?" Descartes asked with a singsong condescension. "Don't you miss big brother?"

Vash had no reason to tell him that, no, he didn't miss him because he was always there. He could close his eyes at anytime and find him, now. The distance didn't make a bit of difference. Knives was a part of him, like a dream he couldn't forget.

So they traveled and hunted down clues and moved from field office to field office. Today, they trained.

Vash was in a bad mood and it wasn't anybody's fault. It wasn't even Wolfwood's fault. Not really.

It was...circumstance and bad luck and...

Well, Wolfwood, yeah, if he wanted to be honest. Wolfwood's fault he hadn't slept well. Wolfwood's fault he didn't think he would for a long time. His own fault for being a fool.

It certainly wasn't the new guy's fault. Julius was a good kid but today he just kept making the same mistake.

"That's the second time I've told you to _disarm _me and you've dropped me instead. The. Second. Time."

Vash held up his hand to stop Julius from protesting. "Listen, listen. You can tackle a guy—I damn well know that already. I need you to show me that you can get my gun without exposing yourself to the kind of danger that comes from being prone on top of a suspect."

Julius was red with exertion and sweating. Small and fair-haired, he usually wore a relaxed, open expression. Today he seemed on edge, as if he could feel the waves of frustration coming off of Vash. It affected him greatly simply because there was no one in the world like Vash. Quite simply, he idolized him, wanted to impress him, and today felt like he was two steps away from getting punched by him.

Vash hadn't even broken into a sweat yet and was holding the mock gun at his side in a death grip. Something must have happened, Julius realized. What could have made his easygoing boss turn edgy?

He nodded when he couldn't form a sentence in reply to Vash's harsh ridicule. Vash had never shown this side to him before. He was like another man entirely when he lost his temper, as it seemed he had. "Yes, sir. Sorry. I just...can't focus today."

"You and me both. Again."

Julius bit the inside of his cheek. From somewhere inside him he found the determination to get it right this time. It was a little sloppy, but he managed the twist and pull that had Vash's gun in his hand in roughly the amount of time Vash had requested.

"Hah!" he said when the pistol was a solid weight against his palm. "HAH!"

Vash smiled, for the first time since Julius' training had started that day. "Not bad, but don't get _too_ cocky, Nick," he said. "That needs improvement. We'll practice it for another ten minutes and then break for lunch, okay?

Julius had been smiling, but it turned into a curious frown. "Um...yeah, okay. Yes, sir."

As ordered, they worked for another ten minutes and then grabbed their towels. They walked side by side to the locker room, talking about lunch. Finally, Julius couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Sir, who's Nick?"

Vash's step faltered and then he just stopped altogether. Julius stopped too, surprised by Vash's reaction.

"Why did you ask me that?"

Julius winced, already regretting his decision to bring this up at all. "You called me 'Nick' back there. You told me not to get cocky, but you called me 'Nick.' Who...who is he?"

Vash stared at his hands. The muscle at his jaw was jumping. "Sorry, I shouldn't have called you by that name."

"It's okay, everybody slips. I'm just worried. You seem...I don't know, sir. You're not yourself today. Do you want to talk?"

Vash's eyes widened in humor. The youthful, naïve Julius offering to be a comforting shoulder for a veteran was just a little beyond belief. Yet and still, he found himself tempted. He'd never confided with anyone save for the Doc back in July after Wolfwood went missing. He realized that he wouldn't mind a sympathetic ear, even if it belonged to a scrub of a kid straight out of academy.

"No," Vash said with a sigh at last. "Thanks, but no thanks." Julius looked brokenhearted.

Vash knew how he felt.

Julius wasn't the only one who worried about Vash and felt the urge to try to help. As the days slipped by, Marianne became more and more troubled. She watched Vash from across the table in yet another temporary base in yet another crowded field office. "Vash," she said and reached for his hand. He looked at her with eyes so distant and dead that she pulled back as if she'd been burned. Things were...not how she'd hoped they'd be.

Vash felt her disappointment. He just didn't have any idea how to help her any more than he knew how to help himself.

* * *

Julius had had nothing to report for a considerable amount of time and was pretty sure Vash was tired of him popping in on the radio to say as much. So he maintained silence. The guy was just standing there. Had _been _just standing there for a long, long time now. Perhaps that last lead had been a dud after all, but it had seemed legit. 

His mark flipped up his collar, looking from side to side and studying the faces of the men who passed him.

Julius yawned. He had a bad feeling that the radio was going to be silent for a while. There was nothing going down tonight. And just as he thought that, he was proven wrong.

"Did you see that, boss man?" Julius asked.

"Missed it," Vash replied honestly. "What was it?"

"Somebody's heading straight for Meir."

Across the street, a second dark-haired man had appeared. He was tall and lanky and fast on his feet. In a second of watching him, Julius was certain that what Meir was waiting for was this lupine man. It was just a hunch and he had learned to trust those after working with Vash for over a year.

"Is he meeting him or just out for a stroll?" he wondered aloud.

Vash hadn't answered him, so Julius spoke again. "Sir?"

"I...Julius, private channel. Secure, please."

Without question, Julius did as requested. "We're clear," he said once he was certain they were. "What's up?"

"Don't let _that _man out of your sight," Vash said firmly. "Even if he splits with Meir, follow _him_."

"Is he with us?"

"No, he's definitely not with us, but he's involved."

"This one of your hunches?" Julius asked with a smile in his voice.

"No, this is one-hundred percent certainty. He calls himself Douglas Wolf these days and he doesn't look like much, but he's good at what he does. Keep close, but not too close."

On the street corner, Wolf strolled right by Meir and nothing was said. An instant later and Meir turned left while Wolf kept on walking his easy walk. Julius was intrigued. He knew, just _knew, _that somehow the men had communicated, that some information had been passed from one to the other. He just didn't know _how_.

"Oh, he's _slick,_" he said offhandedly.

"Stick with Wolf," Vash said and there was something in his voice that Julius wanted, very badly, to understand, but couldn't.

"I'm on it," Julius said.

* * *

He understood that the man calling himself Douglas Wolf was a creature of habits within the first hour of tailing him. He made for a fascinating study. Near the river that snaked through the heart of the city, Julius tilted his head to the side and considered what he had learned. 

He was scruffy, unshaven and probably could buy stock in cigarettes with the money that he spent on them. He smoked...'quite a lot' was an understatement. He smoked excessively. As for his mannerisms, his movements were smooth, but there was an anxiousness about him suggesting that holding still took work. He looked like a regular guy; perhaps a little down on his luck, but nothing quite as extraordinary as what he really was.

What he was, was good at his job. Julius had done a little searching about him with the van's computer. Douglas Wolf had been a busy guy over the past two years, moving about the country doing freelance work as an investigator. He'd done a lot of good. He'd had some close calls. Sometimes he couldn't keep his name out of the papers, though it was obvious he tried. Sometimes he seemed willing to bend and outright break the rules to get the job done. Julius got the feeling that 'Wolf' was a man who lived by the rule that the ends justified the means. He was hardly one of the bad guys, but he was walking a thin line.

If he wanted to, he could arrest Wolf right now for at least five different, justifiable reasons. Extradition would be the problem. It would probably come down to a matter of which state wanted his blood the most.

Julius watched him move with casual grace. Keeping up with him wasn't an easy thing to do. Wolf had the ability to disappear in a crowd or even on a deserted street corner like smoke.

Wolf was _very_ good—tailing him took all his energy. He reminded Julius, effortlessly, of Vash.

Julius followed him to the riverside, wrinkling his nose at the smell that came from all around like heavy fog. A minute later and Wolf was entering the gaudy casino that sat on the water, an eyesore with its blaring lights and signs flashing through the shrinking daylight. As Julius waited and watched, a limo pulled up. What got out of it made his eyes go wide. What had seemed like a regular stakeout to determine Meir's connections and affiliations had quickly turned into something much bigger. He contacted Vash once again. "Boss," he said, "You better get out here. Something's going down."

* * *

Meir looked around impatiently. He didn't see his contact at all and if he wasn't going to come, why had he made it clear that he could? He didn't see the boss, either. What he saw instead was a mundane scene in a mundane, second rate casino bar. There were the average clowns all around. 

There was a lanky blonde at one of the tables to his right who looked wistful as he listened to the music. He took a sip of his frothy beer every few minutes, but generally seemed lost in the kind of thoughts that men at bars tend to get lost in. His lank hair hung in his face and over his glasses. It was a miracle he could see to lift his beer at all. There were a few odd characters here and there—a very big man with a bad haircut, an older man with a pretty young girl on his arm having a winning streak at blackjack, a fresh-faced bartender who looked too young to even drink—but Meir wasn't worried. There were too many of their guys around here for someone to start something.

In the corner, one of his guys gave the signal. He nodded, then looked back at the table where the blonde had been. Oddly, he was gone. It made Meir frown, wondering how he had moved so quickly. He let it slide. Everyone was in position and the boss had arrived meaning he had other things to think about now.

It was a little bit like watching a god descend from heaven: he was a big guy and everything about him was over the top.

His name was Brilliance Dynamite Neon and truly no other name would fit him. He was loud, flashy, cocky, and somehow managed ruthless in between the lines. The girls hanging on each of his train-sized arms looked perfectly content to be there. It wasn't the false kind of gold-digging happiness some girls wore like diamonds; this was genuine contentment to be decoration for this man. Meir wondered if Neon was proof that size mattered, as it always did with women, no matter what they said.

Neon received justifiable attention as he entered. He gave Meir a nod and a smile in greeting, then turned to stare at what had caught his lieutenant's eye. Meir was looking over Neon's shoulder at a dark haired man in a dark suit who had just entered the bar. He was a scruffy guy with artful stubble and a nose two clicks too large. The dark circles under his eyes were vibrant enough to seem painted on. His suit jacket was dusty, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar in a messy way. Maybe he had been dashing once, but now he was down on his luck, down in general. This man didn't have any fight left in him.

Neon's eyes narrowed.

"Susie, Brandy, go buy daddy some smokes. Take your time coming back."

He slapped each girl in turn on the ass, making them squeak like scantily clad mice. They scampered off, and the dark haired man strolled up, hands in his pocket and cigarette glued to his bottom lip.

Neon's smile was expansive. "Well, it looks like we're all here. I'll make sure we aren't bothered." He raised a hand and signaled two large men in dark suits who circled nearby. They both nodded in silent understanding and looked hawk-like around the room, never straying far from their employer's side.

Neon was dressed in something from a bad 70's sex film or an episode of Miami Vice. The suit was white and the shirt beneath it loud, like the pattern had been made when a botanical garden became violently ill. His fingers glittered with gold and jewels. They flashed as he made a graceful gesture towards the vacant chairs across from his own. "Have a seat," he said.

The dark man sat with lazy ease, slouching in his chair and stretching his arm over the back. Meir was obviously less relaxed and sat rigidly.

"Douglas Wolf." Neon laughed once, loudly. "Mr. Wolf, you smell like cop. I could have pegged you from a mile away." His smile was hard. "And I understand from my esteemed colleague here that you're the new player in town. A high roller."

"I don't gamble," Wolfwood said with a smile. "And I'm not a cop. If you don't trust me, why'd you come?"

Neon looked steadily at Wolfwood. "Besides owing you for what you did for Jet? Hmm. I've heard talk about you. I hear talk about you and I don't always dislike what I hear. I don't always like it, either. You pick sides and switch sides and play both ends against the middle. I assume you'll be the thorn in the side of me and mine. If not now, then soon. I figured to meet you before you caused too much trouble. The kind of trouble that ends with you in a pair of concrete shoes at the bottom of a lake."

Neon flicked a piece of imaginary dust off his sleeve. "Are you going to cause me that kind of trouble?"

"That would depend on if you're willing to make a little deal or not."

Neon looked at the falsely innocent, smiling face and his own gruff expression showed that he didn't trust it one bit. "With the devil himself," he muttered.

"Devil? No, but I do like the color red. Let's be reasonable."

Meir nodded. He made to speak, but a pretty blonde waitress brought them their drinks. She gave a wink to Wolfwood who looked her up and down baldly. After she was gone, Meir spoke to his boss with comfort born of years of service. "Look, he shut a lot of the other guys down, but he did good by us. You _know_ he did good by us. He needs information, and you owe him anyway. 'Sides, he's not coming to this empty handed. Believe me on this, boss. We can all help each other out a little, yeah?"

"Favors always bite you in the ass." Neon crossed his arms. "What do you want?"

Wolfwood sat forward. "Knives Millions. I want his foot soldiers gift wrapped nice and pretty for me."

Neon blanched. "You after them? Uh, uh. No way. I never tangled with those guys. I can't handle mooks who dip their fingers in all the pies."

"What's that in plain speak?"

"I _mean _you got your drug runners, yeah? They stick to their drugs, don't they? You get your gun dealers and your hit men. They're too trained to change horses in the middle of the stream, you follow? But what you don't have is guys selling drugs on Wednesday and then robbing a bank on Thursday only to kill a guy for no fuckin' reason you can figure on Friday. The boys who ran with Millions were some crazy bastards for all that they were flashy."

Wolfwood shrugged in agreement. "And all that may be true, but you're forgetting the bigger picture. I'm still willing to sweeten the pot. That's two favors for the price of one. Meir told you what I can do for you if you're willing to overcome your worries. My offer still stands."

"It sounds too good to be true. My mama always told me to watch out for things that sound too good to be true."

"But it's _not _is the thing. Plea bargains, reduced sentences, switched cells that help you run things on the inside—all of these things I can arrange. Easy. And all you have to do is get me Knives' high roller. Come on, what did Livio ever do for you but take your territory and cause you grief?"

Neon shook his head. "Livio is a dangerous man. I have a hard time believing that you outweigh him."

"But are you willing to risk losing a chance like this if you're wrong?"

In the end, Neon was not. They talked for a total of twenty minutes while the bustle of the casino around them hid most of their words from the overly curious. Finally, an agreement was reached. Neon stood, with a bemused expression on his long face. He shook Wolfwood's hand, then nodded in such a way that had his bimbos back on his arms in seconds flat. Meir stood alongside him, eyes nervously scanning the room.

"I like you, kid," Neon said to Wolfwood. "You seem honest enough that I can't even tell when you're lying to my face. After you get what you want, why don't you consider working for me? I could use a man like you."

Wolfwood tilted his head to the side. "I'll think about it," he said in that ambiguously honest way of his. Neon roared with laughter. Meir followed his boss from the casino, stopping to give an encouraging look over his shoulder at Wolfwood whom he liked despite himself. Once they were both out of sight, Wolfwood sighed and took a long drink of his beer. Then he looked around the casino, saw too many eyes trained on him, and decided to be elsewhere. Dealing with Neon was a risk he had been sure was necessary at one time. It was too late for second thoughts, but seeing these dangerous men glaring at him, he had them anyway.

He wasn't ready to call it a night and knew a pretty good snitch at a watering hole ten minutes south by taxi. He hailed one and settled back into the seat. Already, he was trying to think two steps ahead of both Neon and Livio. A full out gang war was a nice distraction, if not overkill. But he needed Livio out in the open, because Livio was Legato's go-to in this town. Was there a way to work this so that he could get to Legato before Legato got to him? He'd had bad luck in that department.

This bar was far removed from classy. It was a bar that reminded Wolfwood of his youth, a place to be a little rowdy. He sat at a table in the back and asked the waitress who brought him his drink, "Seen Spike?"

She shook her head. "You know how he is, never in one place too long. I heard he took that sports car of his on a fishing trip." Wolfwood thanked her and relaxed. It looked like he wasn't getting any work done tonight, so he might as well enjoy himself. He took a long sip of beer, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back.

When he opened them, it was to an unexpected sight: Vash standing by his table. He was too thin, his hair too long, and his eyes far, far too sad behind round framed glasses.

"You know, in one night, I think I've heard more than enough to put you away for life," he said in a steady tenor.

"Hiya, partner," Wolfwood said quietly, standing with the clear intention of getting out while the getting was good. The door wasn't too far away...

Vash stepped closer. "Going somewhere?"

But before he could get the first word of a reply out, Vash punched him square in the jaw.

Wolfwood went down and the ground was anything but welcoming. He thanked God for padding in strategic places. And dammit but Vash hit hard. People were staring at them, and really, that was just too embarrassing.

"Before you ask," Vash said through his teeth after the death stare Wolfwood gave him ended, "that was for that shitty ass goodbye you gave. I ought to hit you again."

Wolfwood stood shakily and looked Vash in the eye. "You get one free," he growled. "Don't try for another unless you want to see how I fight when I'm _not _on your side."

"Is that a threat, _partner_?" Vash asked, smiling, but in the least friendly way possible.

"No, it's a promise," Wolfwood replied.

"Well, two can play that game. I _promise _I'll have every federal agent in the area tracking you down if you don't cooperate with me peacefully and quietly."

"You didn't say the magic word."

"Please," Vash said coldly.

"Not good enough, so my answer is no. I'm not going anywhere with you. Stay away from me." He reached for a cigarette in his jacket, which made Vash go for his gun. Wolfwood smirked, lit the somewhat crumpled Marlboro and then turned away, a trail of smoke weaving through the air behind him. He froze when he heard a familiar click.

Suddenly, several unique looking men and women were clustering near the table. One of them, Wolfwood recognized as he peeked over his shoulder, was the pretty waitress who had flirted with him at the casino. The other guy had been betting at blackjack. He shook his head, feeling like a rookie. He was well and truly caught, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

He sighed. "Vash, you _don't _want to do that. You want to let me walk away before this gets uglier."

Vash turned to look over his shoulder at the scattered members of his team who were waiting for his orders. "You want me to take him in?" a big man with a bad haircut was asking. He looked familiar too, Wolfwood realized, feeling even more like a prize ass. "We've got enough on him."

The blonde Charlie's Angel reject nodded. "He could be the lead we're looking for. But he may have contacted help. Let's read him his rights before his friends show." She moved in and gave him a thorough pat down, taking his gun with a practiced air. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed having such physical attention from a woman this attractive. Right now, he couldn't muster any enthusiasm. She took a step away from him, handing the gun to Vash who slid it discretely away.

"I don't need him arrested. I need him for questioning," Vash said with a smile that was cruel.

"Questioning?" Wolfwood repeated.

Vash seemed to have decided to play nasty to match Wolfwood, who was the master. "Didn't you know? You're wanted for questioning in a federal investigation. Even if you weren't I could always just book you for jaywalking or _something_."

Wolfwood turned back to him slowly, eyes cold and mouth pressed into a line of displeasure. "You've sunk pretty low in two years," he said for Vash's ears only.

"I can say the same to you." He settled into an empty chair with a long legged sprawl. His team looked anxious. Around the bar, a few customers had started to notice that something wasn't right. None of them were at an angle good enough to see the gun in Vash's hand, but it was only a matter of time. Vash didn't seem worried. "Take what we know back to Elizabeth and get started," he said to his team. "I'll stay with the suspect." He ignored their questioning expressions, and the worried ones on Julius and Marianne's faces.

They followed orders, as they always did.

"Have a seat," Vash said.

Wolfwood moved as instructed, but his eyes screamed murder.

* * *

The minute his team was out of sight, Vash put his piece away. Then he started talking. Wolfwood didn't necessarily like what he was hearing. He kept listening anyway. Vash held all the cards, there was nothing else he could do. He still looked angry, but not surprised as he said, "You're tracking his followers? You and that pack of wild dogs?" 

"Yeah, is there an echo in here? And from the looks of it, I'm not the only one after Knives' crew."

Wolfwood shrugged and lit a cigarette. "I don't know what you're talking about, boss man. I'm just a regular private investigator."

"Like hell you are. Sticking to you might lead me to all kinds of interesting things. You know where to find the trouble."

"Too bad I'm out of here," Wolfwood said with a cruel, satisfied smirk. "The minute I finish this drink."

"Not as long as I say I have reason to keep you here," Vash returned with a vicious, toothy smile.

"And you plan to stop me how, _Saverem_?"

"I'm a federal agent. Like I said before, I'm pretty sure I can take you in for _something_."

Vash felt his jaw clench. After two years of searching for the man, he'd run into him accidentally, on a hunch, and he'd be damned if he knew how to react. Outside of the punch, he realized he hadn't planned this too well. And Wolfwood was doing everything in his power to push him away. Like always, only times fifteen. Vash glared at his chimney smoke ex-partner and tried to out think him.

After they eyed each other warily, each waiting for the other man to break first, Vash said, "Listen, between the two of us we know the whole story. You want answers about the case I'm working on? You want to know what me and my pack of 'wild dogs' has figured out? Then make a deal with me: you come in to the field office tomorrow—not as a prisoner, but as a consultant—and you talk to my crew. Just talk. I'll answer all your questions then."

"And in exchange?"

"You answer all _our _questions."

Wolfwood saw the inflexible line of Vash's jaw. "Just talk?" he asked.

"Just talk. Really: no pressure."

"Hrmph. And you'll let me go today just for somebody else to catch me tomorrow? That's not good enough. That warrant in Dallas? The one in St. Louis? I want them ixnayed. Disappear them for me and I'll consider your offer."

Vash's jaw worked double time. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "You've got a deal, but you better be damn forthcoming tomorrow."

"Open book and all that."

They shook on it.

Wolfwood fought not to smile at the idea of Vash driving a hard bargain. "So what do we talk about now?" he asked, taking a sip of beer and steadily regarding Vash over the rim.

Vash's regarded him steadily. "The night is young and the beers are on me."

* * *

They spent the first several minutes in silence, just looking at each other, Wolfwood on the sly. Vash was more open and frank about it, obviously attempting to figure out how much of Wolfwood's sour disposition was real and how much was an act. Wolfwood was sure he'd think of something to say to the other man once he got over the simple pleasure of just looking at him again. 

Over the rim of his glass. When he was looking the other way. Whenever he was sure he wouldn't be caught.

"Nick, you've got to do something about that staring problem," Vash said. The fact that he had the same problem made the statement a little weak. "I mean, I'm just gonna have to bitch slap you if you don't."

Wolfwood shook his head. "I'm not staring and _you've _changed."

"Yes you are, and so have you." Vash drummed his fingers on the table once almost restlessly. "_How_ have I changed?"

"The potty mouth is new for starters."

"'Potty mouth'? What?" Vash asked, trying not to laugh.

"I _mean_ that you didn't curse back then. Not really."

"You try working with guys like my team and not picking up a colorful phrase or two."

"Bullshit. You worked with me for years and never picked up an accent. You didn't pick up my 'colorful phrases', either."

Vash was openly laughing at him now. "Well, I was trying to impress you, wasn't I? I don't have to impress these guys; they have to impress me. That and do what I say."

Wolfwood wore a soppy expression before asking, "You were trying to impress me?"

"Yeah, did it work?"

"Uh...you know," he said vaguely and stared down at nothing, wondering where his indignation had disappeared to. Then he coughed and took a sip of beer. "Maybe."

"You called on my birthday," Vash said suddenly. "Twice. Thanks. Every time I got five seconds of dead silence and then a dial tone, I knew you were thinking of me. It was nice. Kinda."

"Well, you know..."

"Now, the birthday calls I understood," Vash said when had Wolfwood proved his conversational aptitude, or lack thereof. "But what were those few times when there wasn't even a bank holiday, hmm?"

Wolfwood felt his face heat. "Vash, can we change the subject here?"

"No, I really think it's time we talked about a few things."

"We can always talk about things later."

"We were supposed to talk about things two years ago."

"Let it drop."

"Fuck. You."

Wolfwood almost dropped his cup. "W-what did you just—"

"I said, 'fuck you'. Are you deaf as well as selfish?"

Wolfwood slammed his hand onto the table. "I thought we were having a decent conversation here and you had to ruin it! You gonna take another swing at me, too? Where the hell did _this _come from?"

"It comes from you always thinking you have all the answers. You won't look at anything in a different way because you think you've got it all figured out. You _think_ you know what's best and when you screw up you won't admit it."

Wolfwood pointed a fresh cigarette at Vash accusingly. "You know, you've got a funny way of treating a guy you threatened to arrest to keep around. And what did I do that was so terrible, eh?"

"You. Left."

Wolfwood gawked at him. He had a sinking feeling that this was the reason for the punch more than anything else. Not the shitty goodbye, but the leaving itself, which just proved that sometimes Vash was the one who only thought he had it all figured out. "Are you completely stupid?" he asked.

"Stupid for expecting more from you than a disappearing act? Yeah, maybe I should be counted as stupid for putting faith in you that you didn't deserve." And he couldn't meet Vash's eyes when they were like that: a little cold, a little inhuman.

Wolfwood winced—he alone had made Vash think these terrible things about him—but felt his lips moving despite the stab of pain and self-disgust that went through him. "Did you have any idea what was at stake? Do you have any idea what kind of decision that was for me to make? It wasn't easy and maybe it was a rotten thing to do, but I weighed my options and that was the only way to—"

"To protect Milly, yes I know," Vash interrupted with something like bitter in his voice.

Wolfwood found himself wincing again, this time at a memory. He could still hear the sound in his mind, the absence of a heartbeat, a chilling body contorted on the ground before him. The sound of his own breath pouring into Vash's empty chest.

"You don't know anything," he said, finally.

Vash tried and failed to keep his voice from rising. "Well maybe I would if you'd _tell _me something for once. I do know you ran away when you should have stayed and now you're killing yourself."

"I am—"

"You're giving your best to the bottle and you know it." He pointed to the collection of empties by Wolfwood's elbow. "Yeah?"

Wolfwood looked at the hard lines of Vash's jaw and then finally into those flinty eyes and saw the hurt, worry and confusion underneath it all. Right then and there decided that Vash could be mad at all him all he wanted. He wouldn't change a thing about what he 'd done, even if he had the chance to, simply because Vash _was_ here with him, alive and breathing.

"Leaving was the best thing I could have done."

"If you had stayed—"

"If I had stayed? Listen to yourself! You're not as dumb as you seem so fucking think! If I had stayed! You know where things were going with us. We'd have jumped right in without a seconds thought and you'd have been dead the next day." He regretted yelling. Almost.

Some of the men and women at surrounding tables were staring at them, for all that it mattered, and he'd had enough anyway. As far as he was concerned, the argument was over. "Go back to your drinks, show's over," he said and even smiled. They did, a few with lingering looks.

Wolfwood seethed solitarily with his beer and it was Vash's turn to be quiet and thoughtful. After a moment he said in a tentative voice, "You left to protect Milly," as if he actually wanted to keep fighting.

"No."

Like a child certain that they're right, Vash tried again. "You left to—"

"Shut up. Just shut up," Wolfwood said without bite. Vash did, but only because it was easier that way

Wolfwood wanted to hit the table again, but knew it wasn't as satisfying as really hitting something that could feel it. He struggled to keep his voice quiet so as not to disturb the bar again. "You don't fucking know anything." Vash's eyes were confused and even angry.

"I guess maybe I thought I knew you. You're going to tell me I was wrong?"

"Maybe."

"Well then fill in the gaps. After all this time, I want answers," Vash growled.

"Yeah, well you can fucking have them," Wolfwood said just as angrily.

Vash pulled back, sat forward, and then pulled back again. Confusion had completely destroyed his anger. "What does that mean?"

"Hell, I don't know. If you're tired of this shit and I'm tired of this shit, can't we just...call a no more secrets rule or something?" he asked, rubbing his face heavily.

Vash suddenly stopped breathing. "No more secrets? Does that mean...what _does _that mean?"

"Whatever you think it means. What it sounds like. I don't want any of this crap between us anymore, okay?"

Vash swallowed. "Yes, okay." He paused and added, "So I guess we better, you know, talk."

"Yeah. We can talk," Wolfwood said softly.

A few minutes after, when pliers couldn't have torn their eyes off each other, Vash raised his half-empty beer. "Cheers, " he said in a voice as soft and layered as incense smoke.

"To what?"

"To partners, of course."

* * *

A beer later and they were arguing again. 

Wolfwood was currently saying something about Vash's glasses, which he claimed to dislike. Vash was defending his glasses and offering his own complaint that Wolfwood needed a haircut.

Wolfwood called him something—or maybe it was his mother—and then yoinked Vash up by his collar. He slammed some money onto the table, cursed again when it wasn't enough to cover the bill, and then, with Vash's help, managed to assemble the odds and ends of coins into the exact amount. No tip.

The argument continued as they stumbled to the door. They sniped and snarled and both got the feeling they weren't really arguing about what they were arguing about. And they both knew it was about small, mundane things, but their voices were loud enough that the people at other tables stopped talking to glare at them as they made it out the door.

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of secret agent man or something? Do glasses scream 'secret agent man'? No, I'll tell you what they scream: 'dork in glasses.' Yes, that's exactly what you're screaming: 'doo-dah dork in glasses.'"

"And I guess you're gonna win sexiest man alive with hair that looks like it's slowly eating your head!"

"When I'm bald, you complain. When I have too much hair, you complain! You must be too damn nearsighted to see a good hairstyle when you see one!"

They fell into step again. In the space between them, there was nervous anticipation. It was an unspoken understanding that something was about to break.

The cab driver was obviously accustomed to dealing with drunks. He spoke slowly and at a level loud enough for them to make sense of easily. It was all a bit wasted on them sense they hadn't had enough to even get a foot in the door of drunkenness. Still, they both appreciated the effort.

"Where to?" the driver asked when the pair climbed inside and Vash turned to Wolfwood and repeated, "Where to?"

"Oh, _I _have to pick a place now?"

Vash just lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Fine! My place?" Wolfwood said with mock huffiness. "Yours is probably all Mission Impossible with trip wires and bugs and retinal access panels."

"The agency isn't _that_ paranoid."

"Oh, no?" he droned. "That hot Marianne chick stared daggers at me. She acts like she's your one-woman bodyguard service. Or owner of valuable private property."

"All in a day's work," Vash said and shrugged. He wouldn't rise to the bait, and Wolfwood glared at him. He gave instructions to the house he was currently renting and then sat back to enjoy the small buzz in his head that was only half from alcohol. They spoke little during the drive. Instead, they stared out into the nighttime of the city and thought their own thoughts.

Wolfwood's house was nothing Vash thought he should be paying for. He considered that the landlord should pay him to live there, instead. It was drab and gray and leaning a little. Luckily, the inside showed that someone had taken the time to fix it up. The bedroom was even spacious and the bed large and comfortable-looking. The kitchen was even 'nice' if he wanted to be generous. Like Wolfwood himself, the outside of the building had given little idea as to what was going on inside.

Inside, Wolfwood got them both coffee and a beer just in case. He could still hold several more, but Vash was a grade below him when it came to tolerance.

"Another beer?" he asked.

"Nah," Vash said and reached for the coffee.

"Crashing here?"

Vash pulled a sheepish look from his bag of tricks. "If I can. I promise I don't snore."

"I'll have to take your word for it," Wolfwood agreed and stood. He gestured at where Vash was sitting. "You can have the couch if you want. There's fresh linen in the hall closet," he said and his hand flew in that direction. He gestured one last time, to the room behind him, and added, "or there's the bed."

There was a moment of silence, both men watching each other, waiting.

Vash thought momentarily about making a bad joke about his taking the bed and Wolfwood sleeping on the couch, but now was hardly the time for that, especially when that wasn't what either of them wanted. A joke like that would ruin everything.

There was no need for Wolfwood to clarify what he meant and didn't mean.

And Vash, in reply, didn't gasp or act surprised or smile like an idiot or rejoice. He didn't change expressions at all. He said, simply: "I'll take the bed, if you don't mind."

Wolfwood just shook his head, a finite, stiff gesture. It was as if he didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't move, but waited for Vash to stand, cross the small room and join him before the doorway.

"You're not just being dumb, are you?" he asked quietly. "You're sure?"

In reply, Vash just angled his head towards the bed, indicating destination and intent. Wolfwood didn't ask again. They were supposed to _talk_ and to hell with that.

The entered the room together and even then they didn't touch. Instead, Wolfwood pointed at the bedside lamp.

"Off or on?"

"Do you have a dimmer?"

"Yeah."

"Then how about halfway?" And that was such a Vash thing to think—in shifting shades of grey—that Wolfwood smiled. He turned the dial and the light went soft and unclear like an auditorium going quiet before a show.

They stood beside the bed and very slowly began to undress each other. There wasn't a tremor of hand to be found because, whatever else happened, they were partners and this was right. Vash carefully sat his glasses on the bedside stand. Wolfwood sat his lighter beside them. And after a forever of waiting they were bare to the waist and there was much to see.

Vash's eyes traveled over Wolfwood's chest with worry and want battling for control. Wolfwood felt a similar shock, remembering how smooth and clean Vash's body had once been, back when he would sneak glances in the showers at work, only to see it now, dappled with scars of unknown origin. He forced air through his teeth, lifted his hand and touched the one over Vash's heart. The beat beneath his hand was a steady, heavy thrum. Suddenly, he found his hand taken and brought to Vash's mouth. His knees went weak when Vash kissed each and ever one of his fingers. With his eyes closed and his mouth red and glistening, Vash sent his mind into flickering red lust.

He pulled his hand away, got Vash around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. Their first kiss and he was so hot for it he barely even felt it. Vash made a gasping, hiccup of a sound and opened his mouth for more. Wolfwood gave it to him.

And here it was, proof of what Vash had needed to know all night. It made him hotter just thinking that the coldness from before had been an act because all along Wolfwood had wanted _this _and had been fighting it.

They both tasted like beer and there were nighttime noises outside the curtained windows and the hum of the lamp and the texture of the floor under his feet as he kicked off his shoes—all these mundane things made this real, more sensations to make the moment undeniable.

Wolfwood's hands followed the bumps that went down Vash's back to the curve of his ass, pulling Vash's hips and hardness against him. Vash rolled into the motion once, twice, and then steadily over and over again. They weren't going to make it to the bed. They were going to rub themselves off on each other and it wasn't what Wolfwood had imagined for their first time.

He spread his legs wider, tossed his head back and used his hands to guide Vash's fingers to his wrists. There was the slightest pressure, and then a little more. He showed him how hard he wanted it as Vash kept loving his body wherever he could with his mouth and teeth. Finally, it was hard enough to make him cry out.

"Yes!"

Then suddenly Vash wasn't holding his wrists anymore, and his kisses tapered down to chaste kisses in between long breaths. And when it had seemed like he was going to come too soon, Wolfwood now felt like release was miles and miles away. This wasn't what he wanted. If this was too slow, he'd have time to think. He didn't want to think right now.

Vash stroked his face and hair until Wolfwood's breathing was even. "Why?" Wolfwood asked.

Their eyes met and Vash said, breathlessly, "I know it's what you want, Nick, but I can't do it. I can't hurt you." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "I can't."

"Vash—"

"I can't give you what you want."

Wolfwood lifted his hand and dug his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Vash's neck. Shock at the unexpected roughness widened Vash's eyes. "Nick...I...?"

The stormy look in Wolfwood's eyes said 'shut up' when he would never say it himself. "Dammit, Vash. I don't need that from you. I never did and I never will," he hissed and brought their mouths back together. And it was the truest thing he had ever said to Vash: No matter how fucked up his mind was, no matter how obsessed with pain and submission he became, that's not what being with Vash meant to him. And if his body had said differently, it was just because—

Because there was a difference between what you really want and what your body can take. When was the last time this had been completely mutual and mutually wished for? And hell, he knew for a fact he'd never wanted someone so much for so long in his entire life.

"_This_ is what I want," he growled.

"God!" Vash said and his head fell back as Wolfwood slithered his hand down his pants, wrapped his fingers around his cock and squeezed.

"Give it to me, Vash. Come on. I want it."

Vash's pants came down with a violent tug; Wolfwood's slacks were tossed to the side with a fair amount of stumbling. They pawed and clutched at each other, sloppy and uncaring. It was good just like this.

Vash breathed out, "I want you on a bed." He ran his tongue up Wolfwood's jaw and then along the shell of his ear.

Wolfwood shuddered. Right in the middle of the floor had actually been okay with him so long as it meant he could have Vash. He gave in, simply because he wanted to continue doing what they were doing, only horizontally where the mechanics of standing wouldn't be in the way.

Getting to the bed proved easier than they thought it would be. It was closer than lust had made it seem.

There was all this Vash spread out before him and Wolfwood couldn't decide which part to taste first. In fact, he was having trouble with the idea that it was okay to touch at all, which was just ridiculous because Vash wouldn't be naked in bed with him if this weren't okay.

"I don't care where you start, just start somewhere," Vash said with a hint of exasperated affection in his voice.

So Wolfwood pushed him back. The somewhere he picked was Vash's forehead, where he pushed the hair off of his face. Then he ran his hands down his neck, over his collarbone, along the sides of his chest and then down to his bellybutton. He pressed down as he slid further towards the junction of Vash's thighs. Finally, his thumbs were butting against the base of Vash's erection. He let them pass around and then meet again at the underside. Then he slid them up in a light, exploratory touch. Vash was once again smooth and hot against the pads of his fingers. He didn't startle when Vash suddenly got a hold of his hand and moved it further back.

"Okay?" he asked, breathlessly.

Wolfwood made a hissing noise through his teeth and licked his lips. "Yeah, we can do that," Wolfwood answered, leaned down and kissed Vash. Then he sat up again, moving away. "Wait a minute."

"I'm not sure I can, here."

"Try."

There was a bit of fumbling as Wolfwood reached for the bedside stand. "Sorry," he said and returned to Vash's side with a condom a moment later. Vash's eyes fell on the condom, sharp with some emotion Wolfwood couldn't name.

He tried to explain. "It's just in—"

Vash interrupted with, "I know, and it's okay. I...appreciate your caution."

Wolfwood looked mildly worried, but then relaxed at Vash's understanding expression. The package was ripped open and gently, the condom carefully rolled down over Vash's erection.

"Wolfwood, I—" Vash said nervously, trying to sit up. A hand on his chest pushed him back down.

"Let me," Wolfwood said and finished. "Is this okay?" he asked.

Vash shook his head weakly. "It was never like this in my...well, I was kind of thinking you'd—"

"I want you," Wolfwood interrupted. His voice was somehow needy and matter-of-fact at the same time, which made Vash quiet immediately. It had something to do with his mouth going suddenly dry at the idea of Wolfwood—who was sexy and mysterious—admitting that he wanted him, who was just Vash.

Wolfwood went back to the drawer once again—this time for a bottle of lube—and pushed it towards Vash. And it was the practical things like this that got left out of fantasy that made this so very real.

"Take it," he said, voice low on a note of penitence.

So Vash did. He squeezed a liberal amount onto his hand and rubbed it between his fingers. Wolfwood rolled, slowly, back and caught at one of Vash's lube-coated hands, pulling him along. The scars on Vash's wrists added strange texture to the pale skin and he stroked his thumb along them. Finally, after years of waiting, Vash was sliding between his legs, pressing his skin to Wolfwood's and there was nothing else that needed to be done, nothing left to get in the way.

The hand he held resisted, at first, when he guided it down to where he wanted it to be. Vash's eyes looked both wanting and worried. It took moments of edgy but understanding tolerance on Wolfwood's part, but finally a finger was probing at his entrance. Slick with lube as it was, the tip pushed through and past. Vash made a husky noise of approval. Clearly his reluctance before hadn't been from inexperience, but from worry of a kind based on indelible memory. Vash knew too much about him and what he was to go into this frivolously.

"Jesus, Nick," Vash said, wonder in his voice.

"Move," was the breathless reply. It made his eyes snap up from where his finger entered the pink pucker to Wolfwood's tense face. He was...'close' was the most fitting word that Vash could find. Wolfwood looked like he would come from being fucked by a finger alone. Vash shuddered and added another.

Wolfwood hissed and arched off the bed. "Fuck."

"Just fingers, buddy," Vash teased.

"I know that but...it's all in my fucking head," Wolfwood tried to explain. The expression wouldn't have made sense to anyone else, but Vash understood: wanting this for so long and finally getting it had made it into a too-intense experience. Every sensation was heightened to extremes.

Vas's fingers pumped in once, twice, and were going for a third when Wolfwood reached down, ripped Vash's hand from inside himself and spoke with a shaking voice.

"That's enough. I'm ready."

"Hell, I'm not. This isn't going to last very long."

"I don't care, do it now."

Vash pulled back, maneuvered a pillow under Wolfwood's hips, which only made him grouchier and more insistent, and then came back down. With Wolfwood's hands guiding him and his own holding him up, the task was accomplished.

"Is it—?"

"Yes. Nng...I feel...don't stop..."

The head popped through the barrier and both men gasped and then groaned as the long, smooth shaft slid in steadily, pushing hard and spreading Wolfwood more and more.

"I'm—"

"_Yes_."

"Oh, my god you're...ah..."

Vash felt his eyes roll up into the back of his head and realized his breath was coming in short, high-pitched sounds. Dammit, he really wasn't going to last long.

"Ahh, Nick, this...aahhh," he tried to speak and breathe at the same time and it only made his cock twitch when he felt the muscles contract around him. He wasn't even seated properly, still more of him left to go to fill Wolfwood completely. Wolfwood was more than aware of this because he suddenly splayed his hands across Vash's ass and pulled hard.

"More. Now," he demanded. They finally ground together, melded like iron over heat. Ass against groin, sweat mingling.

He collapsed atop Wolfwood's chest, felt his cock leaking, ready to burst. There was a nipple by his mouth and he wanted to lick at it, but was pretty sure more stimulation was the last thing he needed. He tried to think about something else, not how good it felt. It was all Vash could do as his mind and body tried to reconcile all the fantasies with the reality. He was here, now. Fantasies crumbled because they weren't in Wolfwood's office or in the back of his jeep or any of the other places he used to imagine this might happen.

"I know what you mean about it all being in your head, now," Vash said softly, squeezing his eyes together and sweating. When Wolfwood didn't, reply, Vash looked up at him. His dark head was rolling gently from side to side, his eyes closed and his mouth open, gasping for air.

"Nick, are you—"

"You feel good," Wolfwood explained in a rush of air. "You feel so fucking good."

Somehow, it was what he needed to hear. His breathing steadied.

He pushed himself up onto his arms a moment later, looked down at the flushed face of his partner and then down at his leaking erection, freed from the prison of their pressed bodies. Rolling down slowly, closer to that bruised mouth with his own, open, begging to be filled. No sooner had the kiss began than Vash was sliding out, thrilling at the muscles massaging his cock, and then pushing back in.

Wolfwood's body-arching reaction was poetry. He hit the bed hard and gasping.

"Again," he huffed once his breathing was controlled.

And then, "Ahhh...God_...there_," when Vash went deeper, brushed over where he needed him most.

And, "_Again._ Fuck, I need this," when they found a rhythm that was a little jerky, somewhat off, and damn good.

Bringing his leg up and around Vash's waist opened him up in ways that had him feeling Vash like he never thought he would outside his daydreams. And Vash's strokes didn't falter, even when his face showed how he was fighting to stay in the game. Wolfwood bent to his rhythm, picked it up and mimicked it.

Sweat poured down their bodies, dripped from the long ends of Vash's hair onto Wolfwood's damaged chest. It made them slick where they joined and Vash used that to make a frictionless, circular grind when he slammed in again.

Wolfwood cursed.

"God, you're so—" Vash tried and cut himself off with a high gasp.

And now it was a perfect. They'd always worked well together, reading each other's movements, knowing each others thoughts. Birds of a feather and all that.

"Need this," Wolfwood grunted and kissed whatever of Vash he could reach, the side of his face, his shoulder. Vash moved, caught Wolfwood's leg and pulled it higher, folding him neatly in half, and then leaned over. Their lips could meet now and it was what they'd both wanted, which made the pain in Wolfwood's back worth it. It was all tongue, wet and messy. The stroke of Wolfwood's tongue along the roof of his mouth made Vash suddenly speed up, ready to let go and give everything to Wolfwood.

"With me?" he asked.

"Can't. Touch me," Wolfwood whispered. It was awkward to get his hand down between them and around Wolfwood's cock, but he managed. It didn't take long. Wolfwood clawed at the sheets, arched high and screamed when Vash spilled inside him. And he had no one to blame but himself that the condom was there, keeping him from feeling more.

Vash jerked through his own orgasm, squeezing Wolfwood's cock almost painfully when he couldn't control himself. He was almost sobbing with how good it was, his face hot and his eyes stinging. He fell atop Wolfwood, his body still trying to take him even with a softening cock and no energy. It seemed to know that nothing this good needed to end.

It was silent, outside of their panting, as if the night had stopped to listen to them. Vash could move first and he did, pushing up onto his arms to slither their bodies together. It was easy with the sweat and come and the lube. He tossed his head, first to nip at Wolfwood's neck on the left, and then again to lick along his neck on the right. Wolfwood's hands came up, holding him inside when he would have pulled out.

Vash let him for a moment and then said, "No good." Then breathlessly he eased out. They both made a tiny grunt at the last, the head coming free of the tender ring of muscle. With a quick kiss, Vash stood and silently padded to the bathroom. He was gone for a minute, disposing of the condom, and returned with a damp towel. His expression was oddly content as he wiped down Wolfwood's body. They were quiet as the ritual continued, as if they feared noise would ruin something that could never be duplicated.

Vash used a corner of the towel to dab at Wolfwood's forehead, pushing his hair back off his face. Wolfwood watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. "You, next," he said, but he didn't move to take the towel and Vash would have blushed if he hadn't already been red from head to toe.

"Oh," he said. _"Oh." _

But he gave Wolfwood the show he was asking for, hesitantly at first, toweling himself off slowly.

"There," Wolfwood ordered and Vash kept the towel over his nipple as commanded. He stimulated himself with small, tight circles. His mouth fell open and he fought to close it again.

"Good. Now lower._ Lower_. Yes."

When he brought the towel between his legs, his head fell to the side. "Don't stop," Wolfwood whispered.

"Nick—"

"Shhhh..."

He watched, waited, and then smiled when Vash involuntarily jerked against his own hand.

"Just like that."

Vash's voice went a little high, undulating in time to his own rhythm; then it was low and throaty as he continued fucking himself for Wolfwood. "Mmmm...ahh...Nick...ah, ahh...I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, I like that."

Vash's hips moving up and down and the towel a crumple of damp fabric between his sex-sweat thighs: incendiary images to scorch his mind. Wolfwood was erect again and wondered how he'd worked with Vash as long as he had without sporting a permanent hard-on. Vash was just sexy. Long and sexy and passionate and everything. Just_...everything_.

He hurt inside, but he still wanted another go. He ached in pain and need.

"I still want you," Wolfwood said with soft surprised. "Why is that?"

Vash's whole body rolled against his hand. "I want you, too. I want..._Please_."

"Yes," Wolfwood said. "Lay down."

He crawled forward until he was above Vash, looking down at him as if tired was something he would never become, not while he had Vash ready and spreading beneath him.

The lube was easy to find and Vash _was _ready: his body was thrumming with it. "_This_ is how you imagined it?" Wolfwood whispered. His fingers were steady and purposeful. The heat around them made him feel wild and untamable.

Vash, flushed and panting, was a pretty sight. "Always."

Another condom opened, another regret sitting heavy in his mind. And Vash was watching him like he could read it in his face and that _hurt_.

But pushing into Vash was a little like coming home. Good even with the condom and if only he could feel it without. If only.

"Ah..." Vash choked and his voice was thick and broken.

"Stay with me. Ride it out, stay with me."

"I...I always...God, _Nick_." And Vash squeezed his eyes together and felt his body sing a high, sour pitch as he was filled. By Nick. Again and again and it was never as hard as he could take because he wanted to disappear and just be the place where they fit together: tight and burning and slick with sweat and come. It was too much and not enough and he'd die if Wolfwood stopped. Seated, merged, fucking _melting_ together.

"I can feel you, I-I..."

"Vash!" Nick cried. His back arched into a bow and he held the position, driving into where he needed to be.

Yes, home and so much more.

* * *

They dozed off and on, waking to alertness in the early hours of the morning when the world was still steeped in darkness. Wolfwood was on his side staring down at Vash, wondering to himself when he'd get tired of it and when he'd become such a sap for being sure he never would. Vash was running his fingers in circles over Wolfwood's shoulder, noticing the contrast between his pale to Wolfwood's tan. 

It was the fact that neither of them seemed inclined to move or leave that made Wolfwood speak.

"All right, you fess up. Why'd you never do anything? We both knew for ages, maybe from the beginning. You were as big a coward as me."

Vash paused as he gathered his thoughts to explain. "I never did anything because I was pretty sure you never wanted to be touched again."

Wolfwood averted his eyes. "I guess I can see how you got that idea. Hell, you've seen me at my worst."

"I thought you were going to bleed to death," Vash admitted, referring to the time back in July when he'd crashed into a "Guest Room" at one of the more infamous S&M clubs to take Wolfwood away from his voluntary submission to pain. Earlier that day, they had fought, and Wolfwood had felt abandoned. The only thing that had made it hurt less inside was pain. Real pain.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that. This isn't about that," Wolfwood said stiltedly. "This makes me forget all that."

Wolfwood admitting anything so personal was as likely as winning the lottery or being struck by lightening, Vash figured. In appreciation, he might as well try his hand at it too.

"Good to hear," he said softly. "It makes me feel...that's just it. I _feel_."

Wolfwood sunk backwards onto the bed and shifted slowly so that his legs made just the right amount of space for Vash to fit between.

"Come here," he said.

Vash took the invitation. Then their half-hard erections lay together hot and ready for more even when every other part of them was sore and needing a break.

"Jesus, Nick," Vash panted and pressed in. Wolfwood got his hands up and around Vash's back and squeezed only to freeze in fear and worry when Vash cried out in pain.

"What? Are you okay?" Wolfwood dropped his hands away immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

"Not you," Vash hissed. "Work related injuries."

He was careful when he moved once again, pushing Vash onto his stomach to look at his back. He had no idea how he had missed it before during their enthusiastic lovemaking. The skin beneath Vash's shoulder was abraded and red with the beginnings of an infection.

"Concrete hurts," Vash said dramatically. Wolfwood was too busy examining the rest of Vash's scarred back to call him a name for the over-the-top routine. He saw a jagged line that reached around his side and rolled Vash once again, following it to where it ended beneath his ribs.

"You've added a few here and there."

"Here and there," Vash agreed and snuggled down on his back.

"I like a good war story as much as the next ex-cop. Fill me in. These I know," he said and pinned Vash's wrists above his head, his thumbs tracing the matching scars that circled them. Vash shuddered just a little, liking the restraint a little more than he thought he should.

Wolfwood obviously noticed because he pressed down harder. He waited until Vash's breath hitched before releasing him and moving to the faint scar on his forehead. Vash scowled at him for the tease.

"And this one I'm damn familiar with." Wolfwood said, ignoring the scowl.

"Freakin' Louisville Slugger, I'm telling you."

"It wasn't a Slugger."

"Yes, it _totally_ was."

Wolfwood ran his fingers around a set of bite marks "Kaite's dog, right?"

"Beast was a menace."

"And this?"

Vash scrunched up his belly to look where Wolfwood was pointing. "Um...gun fight."

"Maybe I don't want to know the details?"

"No, maybe you don't," Vash said and laughed lamely. "Yeah..."

"Yeah..."

"And this one?" Wolfwood asked. It was a surgically clean circle, half a centimeter in diameter, at the crook in his arm. It looked as if it had once held a tube.

Vash took a moment to answer and when he did it was with forced brightness. "That's nothing, just another injury from work."

Wolfwood's eyes narrowed. "I see."

The eyed each other—Vash with badly disguised, nervous worry and Wolfwood with a more skeptical version of the same—before Wolfwood broke the uncomfortable moment by taking advantage of their newfound intimacy. The scar on his chest was just too perfectly placed for him not to take advantage of it. He made wet, contended noises, lapping at Vash's miraculously still intact nipple.

Vash squirmed prettily beneath him and then moaned when his mouth went down lower and then lower.

"Oh no, stop. Stop!" Vash said breathlessly. "Don't look at me like that, I'm serious. It's my turn. Let me look at these." He nudged him with his foot and Wolfwood grunted.

"You've seen them plenty of times."

"Not really," Vash countered. "Come on, shove over."

With a resigned sigh, he scooted up, dropped onto his stomach, cushioned his head on his arms and gave Vash a one-eyed squint. "Happy?"

"Yep." Without another word, he shifted, rocking the bed with his lanky movements until he was straddling Wolfwood's legs. Wolfwood gasped when the first long finger stroked down one of the deeper, older scars. Many of them were thick and all of them shiny white, scar tissue raising them up like Braille or sinking them down like ditches. The thin, flat wrinkled scars were strange as the fatter ones covered them, burying them under their wormlike twists. It was as if the lines told the sad story of life getting harder, more painful.

Silently, Vash continued to traverse the crisscrossed patterns and gashes and Wolfwood wasn't ready for the kisses that followed the touches.

"Vash," he hissed, "don't," but his hips pushed hard into the mattress once, and then twice, rhythmically.

"Why?"

"They're...they have nothing to do with you and me."

"Oh, yeah. They really do," Vash said and let his tongue trace up, to where a particularly nasty-looking scar stood out starkly across his shoulders. Wolfwood involuntarily clutched at the blankets and turned his head into the pillow.

"Jesus, Vash," he said. "You just don't know."

"Then tell me."

Wolfwood almost knock him off as he turned onto his back. Vash regained his balance and found himself in the not-so-bad position, straddling Wolfwood's hips in a very interesting place. He made the most of the it, shifting just _so_.

"Mmm...do you want to hear this or what?"

Vash stilled. "Right. Okay. You were saying?"

"Adopted," Wolfwood said matter-of-factly. "Same as you, only half a dozen times more." He paused to laugh without humor. "It was the second to last time where I got those 'older' ones."

Vash listened, afraid to say anything to make Wolfwood stop. Afraid that he'd keep speaking. Just afraid.

"He was a church man. A zealot. Like the kind you see on TV, screaming at the funerals of dead gay boys, saying they're gonna burn in hell. Nice guy. I don't have a clue why they let him adopt. He beat the Good Word into me. Sometimes _with _the Good Book. Those scars are from the times he used...other things. And it wasn't just beatings. Of course it was more." He looked away, rolling his head to the side, refusing to look at Vash at all. His olive skin seemed even darker against the white of the pillow. "Dammit, Vash, I don't talk about this."

"I'm sorry," Vash said quickly. "You don't have to. I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"Don't be." He paused and took a breath. "You wanted to hear it and I want you to hear it. That way at least you can know what the hell you're getting into. Every time he took off his belt and beat me, well, yeah, the pants followed, didn't they? And do you know what he said?"

Vash shook his head dumbly, his throat coated thick, but he couldn't swallow.

"He said it was my fault, that I _drove _him to do it, being what I was. Walking like I walked, talking like I talked. Said I had the devil in me and that he knew how to drive it out. And now I'm this fucked up and worse. I've got this idea in my head that sex comes with pain and _you're_ the exception, not the rule."

"Nick…"

"Hey, the sooner I finish, the better, yeah? So, long story short: he kept a gun and I knew where it was."

Vash's eyes widened and before he could school his features, Wolfwood saw the shock, the disgust. His voice was bravado-hidden hurt when he spoke again. "So now you know what I am. Do you regret this now?"

He flinched when Vash's delayed answer was a gentle caress of his cheek. "You told me once that you shot and killed a little boy when you were on duty during a robbery. You said he wasn't the first person you killed. I understand now. You've had...a very hard life," he said. "How o—"

"Seven," he snapped out unintentionally. "I was seven years old. The bastard's buried here, you know. He had family here. Maybe they're the only ones who miss him."

And with those words, an unpleasant truth was somehow confirmed for Vash: Wolfwood did not regret what he had done. If given a chance, he'd do it again. Vash swallowed. "What happened next?"

"Next is no surprise. The first on the scene was an up and coming cop named Forrester Henry."

"The _chief_?" Vash asked, thinking of their gruff but loving chief from years ago, back in the city of May when Wolfwood had been hot on the trail of the Leatherman killer.

"The one and the same."

"You were adopted by the _chief_?"

"Like I said, he wasn't a chief then."

Vash's face showed that his mind was putting a few things together quickly. "You always said the chief let you get away with murder."

"I was being literal." He stretched a little, used the action to rub against Vash, and it still felt good even if they were talking about dark things.

Vash shook his head. "There's a lot I never knew about you, isn't there?"

"Yeah, but that's hardly news." He gave Vash his most charming smile and let his hands start moving again, stroking up and down, teasingly.

"Uh-uh, Mr. Evasive," Vash laughed. "I'm nowhere _near _done."

Wolfwood's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Come on, buddy. I know I said no secrets, but a guy has to have some sometimes."

"That only works for women."

"No, no, it _really_ doesn't."

Vash refused to fall into the trap of joking with Wolfwood and instead let his eyes roam down over Wolfwood's chest. They went to the side, followed the ridges of his bones and muscles down to his stomach. The lines here were fresh.

Sweeping his hands lightly over those scars like sweeping away the dirt of years, Vash's expression was unreadable. His palm settled over a set of red scrapes angling over Wolfwood's ribs.

"These aren't old," was all he said. The temperature of the room dropped ten degrees, or so it seemed to Vash.

Wolfwood swallowed once, reflexively. Vulnerability melted into defensiveness in the lines of his face. "You just had to go there, didn't you? You always have to know everything. Well, what do you want me to say here, huh? Did you expect me to stay a saint, waiting for you to find me one day?"

Vash looked sullen. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Did _you_?"

"Did I what?"

"Stay a saint? Wait for _me_?"

Mouth falling open and then snapping shut, Vash was almost comical. "I...I tried. Hey, don't look at me like that, you hypocrite. What can I say? I like blondes."

"Hmph. Exactly."

"Well look whose judging _now_? What about you? Did _you_?"

"Did I _what_?"

"Try? Did you even _try_?"

Wolfwood looked down. "I...no. The answer is no. You _know_ I didn't. I couldn't. Yeah, okay, I guess I _could_ have, but it's not like I ever expected to see you again."

"And just to prove how _wrong _you can be: here I am!"

"Yes," Wolfwood said on a slow, thoughtful note. "You're here."

Vash looked surprised. He lightly touched his hand over Wolfwood's heart. "Yeah, hey: I'm here. Yeah?"

Wolfwood clutched at Vash's shoulders. "Then stay," he said and when Vash looked at him dumbly, he added again, softly, "stay." And he had no idea what the hell he was thinking with his life as fucked up as it was, but the word felt right in his mouth and sounded good to his ears. It was the truth and he heard and used it far too little.

Vash pulled away and storm clouds danced across his face. "Let me clarify what you're asking here. If you want me to stay the night, I'm here. If you want me to give up my life and come play house with you, we've got problems. Which one is it?"

Wolfwood sat up too, radiating defensiveness. "Okay, this is the part where the fight ends, right? You know what the fuck I mean," he said.

"Yeah, maybe I do."

"Well?"

"No."

Wolfwood threw his hands up and looked like the only thing he wanted was a beer and a pack of cigarettes. "Well shit, Vash. Just…what the hell? We've got something here. I don't know about you, but that wasn't just some screw, you know."

"No, it wasn't. It was good. You know it was," Vash said, exhaustion, or maybe just exasperation, in his voice. "But I have to keep moving."

"What?"

Vash looked suddenly serious. "There are things I have to do, Nick. And until they're finished, I can't have this with you. No matter what I want, I just can't."

Wolfwood's jaw hardened and he stared grimly out into the dim light of his bedroom. "There's always something," he said. "Always some damn thing."

Suddenly, Vash was against him again, speaking softly into his ear pleadingly. "Yeah, there's always a catch. But we still have tonight. Don't we?"

Vash was tilted off balance and was suddenly on his back with his hands pinned above his hand.

"Sweetheart, if all you want is tonight, you've got it," Wolfwood growled and then swooped down to claim his mouth.

He reached out with a free hand, flipped the dimmer and the room plunged into the darkness. After all, he thought, the world was only black and white. Vash's transient shades of gray were myths, ones that turned to ash in the bright light of day.

Vash spread his legs and Wolfwood slid between them.

In the dark, everything was equal.

* * *

The morning after. A meeting room in the downtown FBI field office. 

The goddamn morning after. And not five hours before, Vash has climbed out of bed, moving with a stiffness Wolfwood could sympathize with. He'd followed him to the kitchen and they'd talked about the day, about when and where he was to meet Scanlon.

They'd both been soft-spoken, overly cautious, even cold. They'd both had their reasons for it. After all, hadn't that final time been as much in anger as it had been want and lust and need? They'd parted without touching. In fact, after the details about the meeting had been exchanged, they hadn't even spoken. Wolfwood told himself that sometimes things were just that way.

He wanted to punch his fist through a wall.

And yeah, the morning after was a bitch, especially if you had to pretend the night before hadn't happened at all for an audience that was just waiting for you to slip up. Especially if you had to butt heads with the man you'd just slept with when you could still fucking taste him. Not at the back of his throat like maybe he thought he should be able to, but deeper, somewhere where it wasn't so easy to get rid of.

Wolfwood wanted to smoke, but had been told, politely but firmly by everyone, that this was a non-smoking building.

An FBI field office, he thought with a mental snort. How low had he sunk?

The meeting had been going on for over two hours. They weren't speaking to each other directly, but Vash had given Wolfwood the look that said, "Put on your ears and listen and _try_ not to be difficult" so Wolfwood had tried his very, very best.

Tried and failed. What it boiled down to was that they were a task force tracking down the insanely loyal followers of Knives Millions. That much was easy for Wolfwood to follow. What was more troublesome was Scanlon, the agent responsible for organizing and forming the little rag tag group.

It was obvious from the first handshake that Scanlon knew exactly who Wolfwood was, knew his file forwards and backwards, and was happily lying to his team about it.

'Mr. Wolf' he called him and the silence after was almost audibly filled with the rest of the name he refused to say. Worse, no one else seemed to notice that Scanlon was handling him with more respect, more obvious caution, than most of them thought he deserved. He was just the punk investigator with a criminal record, as far as they knew.

Wolfwood was willing to play along, up to a point. At the moment, Scanlon was talking about Meir, about his connections.

"We don't have proof as of yet, and Millions has denied it so far, but we believe that Meir is working with a group called the 'Bad Lads' and that they are an independent satellite organization based in..."

He was trying too hard. He had trussed Meir up as something he wasn't: a connection to more of Knives' men and Wolfwood knew he wasn't. Meir was a pitcher for the other team and Scanlon bloody well knew it. Wolfwood saw right through all of it. Scanlon didn't want Meir or Neon: this was about Legato and what Wolfwood could do to lead them to him. Scanlon was gearing up to offer him a lucrative position as bait for a trap.

A twisted part of him wanted to say, "I've got a plan: just wait until he's fucking me hard against a bathroom wall and then 'cuff him."

He doubted that would go over well.

As near as he could tell, Scanlon may have even arranged to be in the same town as Wolfwood for this very reason. His eyes snapped away from the federal agent to his former partner who was doing his best not to look at him.

Yeah, either Scanlon had set this up, or Vash had. How much of their meeting last night had been coincidence?

One thing was certain, he was damn curious to see how they were going to ease into the issue of Legato. Part of him suspected Scanlon didn't have the balls to do it. The rest of him knew for certain that Vash did.

He looked once again at Vash, his arms crossed and his brow creased in concentration. Suddenly, he turned his head and their eyes met. Wolfwood looked away first.

It was going to be a long meeting.

* * *

Across the room, Marianne was looking at Wolf. She was supposed to be listening to Scanlon, but seemed to have forgotten her manners. 

The truth was that the meeting was tense and Marianne didn't quite know why. She could see the rest of the taskforce shared her confusion. It wasn't until Vash leapt two feet sideways to avoid even the slightest contact with the man called "Wolf" that Marianne understood: the two men bothered each other. More than just bothered, they got under each other's skin in ways indescribable.

She couldn't say it was dislike because the temperamental Wolf didn't snap or bark at Vash, though he had reason to after the reception he'd received yesterday. And Vash was just as friendly to everybody even when his body screamed tension so she couldn't be certain what he was feeling. It was true that the man was as good as a criminal for all that he called himself a private investigator. But Vash was usually even kind to people on the wrong side of the law.

Now Scanlon was talking about an urban legend connected to Knives. According to the story, he had saved an entire orphanage of abused children by murdering their abusers. It was a story the task force knew very well now, but Marianne wondered why Wolf didn't appear even remotely surprised. He shouldn't have had access t to the story at all. At the front of the room, a picture of a familiar face flashed on the projection screen. Marianne almost growled. She'd had her hour with this woman and didn't want to meet her again. Dominique Kuklos, a pain in the ass if ever there was one.

"We were able to get a lot of information from this woman," Scanlon said. "She was taken into custody in the city of July a few years ago after aiding in Knives' escape. Her real name is Diane Crane. She was in that orphanage for over five years and admits to suffering abuse at the hands of the caretaker and the headmaster."

Wolf walked closer to the screen. Scanlon was giving him that cocky knowing look again.

"She sang like a bird after Knives was arrested," Scanlon explained. "She says that Knives took them away from an abusive environment, gave them new lives and new identities."

"He gave them more than that," the hacker named Elizabeth said cynically. "These aren't normal men and women. The one's we've encountered are capable of some pretty bizarre things. We've had some close calls trying to take them in."

"How many do you have in custody?" Wolf asked as if news that they were dealing with super-powered freaks was hardly new.

Scanlon smiled thinly. "Since Vash joined the team, our success rate has improved. We have six in custody now."

Vash caught Wolf's eye. "There are more out there. They're loyal, but _not_ dependent. We've found that they can operate independently of central leadership. We've also found that, in the past, someone was there to organize things during Knives' frequent absences."

"And that's where you come in," Scanlon said, hitting the advance button on the remote to pull up another picture.

Legato Bluesummers stared down at the room with golden eyes. His posture suggested that he had turned to the cameraman, aware of the surveillance but unafraid. Next to him, a dark haired man with distinct scars and a clever expression was gesturing, oblivious to everything but his companion. Wolf studied the screen, expression unreadable.

"I understand from what Vash monitored of your conversation that you were meeting Neon in an attempt to track down this man, a member of Knives Million's gang named Livio," Scanlon was saying. "This interests me because Livio is currently working with Legato Bluesummers, the man on the left. Millions has told Va…has told _us_ that Legato was his go-to for _everything_. You were able to track down Livio and even worked out a way to take him down without getting close to him, all without federal resources. We need to know what you know. If you can lead us to Legato, we would be willing to turn a blind eye to some of your indiscretions."

"What kind of indiscretions?" Marianne asked, eyes sharp with suspicion. The rest the task force, except Julius, exchanged suspicious looks. Only Wolf remained stonily unaffected. Vash was looking at him with a steady gaze.

Scanlon smiled his knowing smile again. "Why don't you ask 'Wolf'? Okay, if you're reluctant to tell them, then maybe you'll allow me? We've got you on charges of fraud, violation of several gun ordinances, aiding and abetting, impersonating an officer," here he paused and tilted his head to the side. "You and I know these are the minor ones."

"Fraud? Minor?" Ryan said through clenched teeth.

"What the hell? I thought he was just a little on the line. You've got us working with a full-fledged criminal!" Marianne exclaimed.

"We don't know the details yet," Julius protested. "You can't judge him without letting him defend himself!"

"Oh, and you trust him?" Ryan asked.

"Yes," Julius said after an awkward hesitation.

"Well, that counts for a lot coming from the Boy Scout in training!"

"You all are missing the point," Scanlon said calmly. "Wolf here has connections that we can never hope to achieve in such a short amount of time. We want Livio. We want Legato. While we're at it, we might take Meir and Neon, too. How about it? Our lenience for their capture."

Wolf sighed. "I'm not so sure I like how you do business, mister."

"I can play a lot dirtier."

Wolf's nostrils flared and his eyes turned hard, almost black. He reached into his coat pocket and lit a cigarette to the shock of everyone in the room. He let out a long stream of smoke. "You want Bluesummers? You have no idea what you're dealing with. And if you think you have a snowball's chance in hell of getting near him without me, you've got another thing coming. If you want my help, you have to play by my rules. Take your threats and shove them, _Agent _Scanlon. Vash," he said, turning to the silent blonde sitting beside Scanlon, "you want to roll with that shyster, that's up to you, but I'm not putting up with his shit. Until he learns a little respect, I have nothing to say to any of you."

He reached the door and said over his shoulder, "And I want my fucking piece back." With a last, defiant plume of smoke sent streaming into the air, he walked out. He left behind a room of angry and confused looking men and women. Scanlon's expression was twisted into rage.

For a moment only silence reigned. Finally, Elizabeth spoke. "Well, I'm going to go on and say it: that was a waste of time."

"You don't know that," Vash snapped. "He wants to catch Bluesummers as much as we do. We just have to give him time." Marianne looked at him in surprise, incapable of understanding how he could defend such a man.

"I'm not sure we need to work with someone with nothing to lose, after all," Scanlon said. It was obvious he was holding in his anger. "I don't know how to get a man like that working for us. Threats don't work."

"Did you ever think of just _asking _for his help instead of threatening him?" Vash snapped, showing the first hint of irritation towards Scanlon.

Ryan looked skeptical. "I'm sorry, Vash, but we don't know this guy. Maybe Elizabeth is right. His motivations—even his loyalties—are under suspicion. How can we trust him?"

"I'd trust him in a firefight," Earl said and Julius nodded in agreement. "He's a tough son of a bitch."

"I'd trust him with my life," Vash said simply. Scanlon wore a strained expression and tried to catch Vash's attention. He failed miserably: Vash was staring after Wolf. "I'm going after him," he said suddenly, then grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and hurried from the room.

"Vash!" Marianne protested.

"Let him go," Scanlon said. They watched Vash's retreating back, each one thinking private thoughts.

* * *

"Nick! Wait!" 

He caught up to him, got his hand around Wolfwood's upper arm and tried not to notice the jolt that went up his arm at the contact. Maybe it had been a mistake to touch him.

He didn't let him go.

"I don't go by that name here," Wolfwood said and spun on his heels. His face was one click shy of feral.

"Sorry, sorry. Old habits die hard." His fingers flexed around the tight muscle. "Walking out like that? Not cool. Come on, we need your help." The fingers flexed again, didn't loosen this time, just clung.

"Yeah, everybody needs something, don't they? People in hell want ice water."

"You didn't even give us a chance!"

Wolfwood barked a laugh. "You want me to give you a chance? Scanlon threatens me with jail time and you want me to give you a chance?"

"I did the same thing and you agreed to talk to me!"

"That's different. That was _you_. This is him."

"Yes, okay," Vash said simply. "He went about it the wrong way. Just...please." His eyes were wide and pleading, but not for help. Not for Wolfwood to give him a chance.

Wolfwood felt everything crumble away. "Dammit," he said. He freed himself with a practiced twist and moved quickly to get Vash around the wrist instead, squeezing too tightly. He pulled, guided.

By walking fast, they made it to a closet hidden far down a barely-used corridor. It was locked, but Vash had it open in a frighteningly short amount of time, even shaking as he was.

"How did you—?"

"Doesn't matter," Vash said. His breathing was already heavy with anticipation. Wolfwood took a step back into the room and dragged Vash with him. He only took his hands off the other man long enough to close the door and throw the latch. Then he had him up against a wall and his mouth hard against his own.

The kiss hurt in a few painful, but mostly good, ways. Vash cut his lip on Wolfwood's white teeth and almost came when a thigh pushed between his knees and then up. His head fell back.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"God, I...yes...I didn't hear a thing anybody said," Vash answered and ran his hands under Wolfwood's shirt. "They were talking and I was thinking about—"

"This? About fucking against a wall?" Wolfwood asked huskily. He put his hand to the front of Vash's pants and squeezed.

Vash cried out and squirmed against him.

Wolfwood cursed as his fingers fumbled, but finally got the last button of Vash's shirt undone. And while the buttons had hindered his progress at having as much as Vash undressed and sucked on as possible, that's not what he was swearing about. He was swearing because all his one-night-only plans had been ruined the moment he looked at Vash that morning. He hadn't been in the same room with him for even one second before thinking about having him again.

"Every time you spoke," Vash whispered. Wolfwood kissed him harder. The fly on Vash's pants was no barrier to Wolfwood.

"H-how much time do we have again?" Vash stuttered.

"Time enough for this," Wolfwood said and dropped to his knees. He mouthed at the bulge under the fabric teasingly and then released Vash's erection.

"Nick, I—"

"Shhhh, I know. Just go with it."

Without hesitation or stalling, Wolfwood swallowed him. Vash's eyes went wide and he arched off the wall. A part of him knew exactly why Wolfwood could do this so well and was horrified. The rest of him was thanking all the kinky things Wolfwood had done a lifetime ago because it felt damn good.

"Fuck," Vash hissed and then bit into his bottom lip. He tried to hold back, but his hips wanted to move. He settled for a slow slide out. It was a warm hand petting along his lower back and ass that made him look down. Wolfwood's eyes were trained on him, even as his throat worked around his cock. They were telling him to let go, that he could take it rough. _Let go. _With a cry, Vash did, moving faster and harder.

"I-I'm going to—" But Wolfwood's eyes said he knew already and just the idea that Wolfwood knew how close he was and wanted it made Vash start to climax. What pushed him over the edge at last was the hum deep in Wolfwood's throat and the final, intense suck he gave to the shaft.

Wolfwood didn't miss a beat, didn't spill a drop and really, this sort of thing did take practice so Wolfwood was—what _was_ he, exactly?

He was shaking and still a little hard when Wolfwood rose to kiss him and he tasted like—

"God!" Vash panted and got his hand down Wolfwood's pants roughly.

"Nnng...yeah, like that," Wolfwood encouraged. "Wanted you...Want you..."

He braced his hands on either side of Vash's head and rocked his hips. With his head on Vash's shoulder, he could nip and bite at his neck, not enough to leave a mark that would raise questions, but just enough to let him feel it. He figured this was going to be messy and that many justified parties were going to ask about the wet stain on his pants.

He figured he would drop dead of disappointment and unfulfilled lust if Vash dared stop out of consideration for his wardrobe.

Vash stroked long and then rubbed the head, fingers sliding over the vein. Then he squeezed a little harder. Once, twice, and Wolfwood came on a stifled scream. As he came, Vash's fingers slipped back further and Wolfwood almost cursed because now was not the time to tease him about something they couldn't have.

"No time to—" he whined.

"We can make time," Vash argued.

"No time," Wolfwood said again, smiling. He extracted their hands and licked Vash's fingers.

"Okay, then maybe you should stop that if this is all we get," Vash said, mesmerized by the sight of Wolfwood sucking on his fingers.

Wolfwood swallowed, dropped the hand, and then buried his face into Vash's shoulder. "This isn't all," he said softly. "Come home with me tonight."

They were fools for even considering this, but once hadn't been enough, and twice wasn't going to cut it either. It had become terribly clear to Vash that it might take another five years of knowing Wolfwood and sleeping with him regularly (possibly three times a day, like meals or drugs) to even begin to take the edge off. Another twenty and he might have him out of his system, but it was doubtful.

And with the way Wolfwood was kissing him and saying his name combined with 'please' like a chant, refusing to let him go, Vash had a feeling it was mutual.

He nodded dumbly. "Yes," he said. _Hell_ yes.

They were screwed.

* * *

They almost made it through the door without kissing. 

Almost.

"Vash," Wolfwood breathed. "Now."

They door was locked clumsily behind them.

"Wait, clothes off first. Bed."

"No."

"Yeah, okay. Floor. God...fuck...ahh."

They had known in the car they weren't going to make it to bed, but they had figured they might reach the couch, at least. They'd been wrong. In fact, in the car Vash had contemplated a dark alley, but had eventually thought better of it when the idea of brick cutting into his back occurred to him. Now they collapsed together—a jumbled of long arms and legs—and still weren't close enough. They needed skin. The buttons on Vash's shirt popped off, hitting walls and tables and chairs. The shirt itself was pulled off and thrown. Neither man was sure where it landed.

Wolfwood's followed with a telling ripping sound. It hung off him in tatters as he tumbled across the floor with Vash, fighting to be on top and just to have more. Vash won in the end. He caught Wolfwood's eyes with his own, holding him down, and then drifted down. The sound of the zipper alone made Wolfwood's mouth go dry. When heat engulfed his erection, his mind went white and chaotic, like static.

He didn't last long. Panting, Vash slithered back up and kissed Wolfwood with his own taste and they shared it. Then Vash was on his back and Wolfwood was showing him a trick or two, moaning as he sucked and fondled because he enjoyed making Vash feel good. Vash's strained cry was just what he'd wanted. And then they were kissing again, too many tastes and sensations in the way of just feeling each other, but even that felt right.

Panting, breathless, exhausted, they stared up at the ceiling.

"Damn, damn, damn," Wolfwood cursed.

Vash nodded. He felt exactly the same.

Wolfwood swallowed, tasted Vash and added another 'damn.'

* * *

Later, they curled up together in the dark, watching bad TV dramas, just like old times, only with physical barriers completely eliminated. Vash was wearing one of Wolfwood's baggier shirts and nothing else. Wolfwood was in a pair of loose-fitting pants, unselfconscious about his bare and scarred chest. Still, neither man was completely relaxed for a dozen reasons or more. Wolfwood kept glancing back to the table where his gun sat disassembled, as if he expected Vash to take it back from him on the sly. 

"You trained that kid, right?"

"Who, Julius? Yeah. How'd you know?"

"'Cause he's a good detective and a horrible liar."

A minor, half-hearted argument came from that, but the silence was back again soon before Vash felt the urge to hand out an olive branch or two.

"I know we were thinking that this...wasn't a good idea. I know I said so. But. Listen. I've got some things to take care of tomorrow. I'll be following the leads we got from Neon," Vash said without turning away from the teenybopper action drama with the pop soundtrack.

"Tomorrow night?"

Vash pursed his lips. "Maybe I'll work late."

"And the next day?"

"Amazingly free," he said, imagining how he was going to phrase, exactly, his reason for taking time off.

Wolfwood's finger trailed down his back. "Good." And that was that. They weren't over. They weren't going to have to live on two days of not nearly enough. Everything was good.

Vash shifted; Wolfwood shifted to meet him. They sat closer together now, one of Wolfwood's legs draped over one of Vash's and their sides brushing with each breath.

Vash tried not to smile at the way Wolfwood leaned in to him like a needy kid. He leaned right back, which was another reason to try not to smile. They were either very bad for each other, or very good. He got the feeling it was the former. His biggest fear was that Wolfwood would come to the same decision.

"Something bothering you?" Vash asked after a time. Wolfwood hadn't laughed at five of the last jokes, as if he wasn't even listening.

Finally, Wolfwood said, "How old are you?"

Vash went still. He was choosing his words carefully. What he said, at last, was, "Where did this come from?"

Wolfwood shook his head. "You weren't the only one looking for answers. That meeting with today only gave me more. I've started to put a few things together."

"Like?" Vash asked quietly.

"Like the amount of time between when Dominique says Knives escaped from the orphanage and when he came back to rescue her and the other children. That's a fifty-year window, Vash. And you look like him. _Just_ like him. Fill me in Vash. Scanlon wanted you for a reason. He treats you like a prize."

Vash wore a guarded expression. "Like I told you all those years ago: I don't remember the orphanage very well. I don't remember anything that came before it. I just...there's a lot I don't remember. I never tried to lie to you."

"So tell me the truth now. Who is Knives Millions?"

Vash's sigh was heavy. "My brother. My twin, actually."

"Does _he_ know how old you are?"

"He's...hinted that he does."

Wolfwood took a breath and asked what seemed to be the question that he'd wanted to ask all along. "So what are you?"

Vash shook his head. "I'm whatever Knives is. Maybe we could save a few people if we knew exactly what that is. But he's not being so cooperative. I think maybe he doesn't care what we are. Or maybe he knows already and doesn't want the world to find out."

Wolfwood let his eyes travel over Vash's youthful face gravely. "So they can't poke him with needles and hook _him _up to machines, but they can do all that and more to you?" His eyes had dropped to the mysterious scar on Vash's arm, understanding suddenly what Vash was enduring.

"They need to understand what we are so that they can put an end to the things he's been doing."

Wolfwood looked disgusted. "They want to know what you are so they can reproduce it and _control _it, Vash. There's nothing more to it than that."

Vash was silent and it was obvious that Wolfwood had voiced a fear that he himself shared. He argued against it anyway. "That's not true."

"It is. You're more than just a good agent for them. You're a guinea pig."

"Now you sound like _him_."

"Maybe I'm not so different from him," Wolfwood snapped and almost seemed surprised by his own vehemence. Then even that was gone, leaving only the anger.

Vash looked strangely uncomfortable quite suddenly. "Don't say that."

"Why? Because it's true?"

Vash stood and moved into the kitchen, flipping on the light with a frustrated flick. Wolfwood followed.

"Don't walk away from me."

Vash threw up one hand. "Oh, we're being mature today, aren't we? Next we'll play rock, scissors, paper to settle the score! Grow up." He kept walking, going for a mug in the cabinet.

He was whirled around by a firm grip on his wrist and then pushed back against the counter. The mug fell to the ground with a heavy sound, miraculously still intact.

"I said. Don't. Walk. Away. From. Me," Wolfwood growled.

"Back off."

Vash barred his teeth in anger, but nothing could hide his reaction to the intensity of the moment. Wolfwood saw it in his eyes, got him around the legs and lifted him onto the counter aggressively. He was there, pressing against him before Vash had time to protest. He attacked his neck, whispering words that Vash missed as he tilted his head back.

"Don't try and distract me with this."

Wolfwood didn't answer, just moved closer to Vash's ears, some of his words making it through the fog of reluctant anticipation in Vash's mind. Words like "Right here on this fucking counter" and "You want it just like this."

"Stop it," Vash said, but opened his legs wider when Wolfwood made it clear that he was supposed to. "You can't end every fight this way."

"Watch me."

It was a strange, vulnerable position though he was higher up, looking down at Wolfwood, craning his neck down to kiss him. He felt open and exposed. Then he just felt stretched and then filled with spit-wet fingers. It was a little rougher, the fight leaving a stain, tainting the edges red and bruise purple. "You're gonna come just like this," Wolfwood said and crooked a finger inside him as he wrapped his other hand around his cock.

There were more bites, more curses and pleas for more and fuck and harder and stop and no and _there._

"I don't fucking care what you are," Wolfwood was growling, but it was unintelligible to Vash who was just barely holding on, ankles locked together and back fucking aching. He slid down further, pulled Wolfwood on top of him until he could barely breath with the weight crushing down. He came screaming into his mouth.

Wolfwood finished a minute later by in his own hand, saying Vash's name over and over. Then he was stroking his face too heavily as aftershocks racked them both. Then Vash just cradled him, not sure of what to say; not sure if there was anything he could say. They stayed that way for longer than they should, both of them lost in thought as their skin started to itch and their throats reminded them that coffee might be nice, or water at least.

Vash pushed him off and away with a strangely awkward kiss and then slid down him as Wolfwood lowered him to the ground, hands on his hips. He didn't apologize. Neither did Vash.

They showered together, slowly and with few words exchanged. Vash turned red under the steam and Wolfwood's hair was like ink in the wet spray.

Then they dressed and Wolfwood walked Vash to the door, trying not to think about how they'd both failed miserably at the no secrets rule. It was easier when they weren't fighting. It was easier when they were there for each other like they'd always been before Picasso. Now he had to let Vash just walk away after a nasty fight and neither of them had said what they'd wanted to say. More than that, it was clear that they both just wanted to try to work things out, to make this work, somehow. There was nothing either of them wanted more. So why the hell couldn't they get it right?

* * *

Marianne was quiet today. Scanlon was giving him suspicious looks. Julius was asking him if he was okay every five minutes and offering to bring him coffee every half hour. The rest of the team kept their distance, as if they could see the irritation coming off of him in waves. They wanted to ask what had happened after he stormed after the mysterious Wolf, but knew they weren't going to get answers until Vash was ready to give them. Ryan openly made snide remarks about the man, finding a few colorful ways to challenge Vash's authority while he was at it. It got so bad that gentle Earl told him to shut the fuck up. 

And that was the last straw.

"I'm going to go see Knives," Vash said and the room went silent, bickering forgotten. The mention of Knives Millions in such a casual tone was enough to make anyone shudder.

"You're not scheduled to see him for—"

"I'm going," Vash said, mustering patience and calm, "to see my brother."

He left behind a room of troubled looking men and women. Marianne took the rest of the day off, claiming a headache. No one doubted her as she had dark circles under her eyes that told of a terrible, inner conflict.

Vash went to see his brother. It was hardly a short drive now and the day slipped away as he drove. Visiting him in his mind was not enough right now. He wanted to see him.

It was tempting on the drive over to the prison to slip into their world early. Everything was so beautiful and calm there. He needed things to make sense. At one point he got so near the boundary that he saw Knives swivel towards him, surprise on his flawless face.

Vash took a corner wildly when this world and that crashed together before his eyes. Horns blared all around him and he cursed. He decided to wait, but it was a difficult thing.

Finally, after the checkpoints and the guards and the metal detectors, he sat before his brother.

"This was a long trip for you," Knives said. "You could have just—"

"I wanted to _see _you."

Knives tilted his head to the side in that peculiar way of his. "Come to me," he said, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Vash was there in an instant—blue sky above, endless water below—and the first thing he did was hug his brother so tightly that Knives actually stiffened in surprise. It took a minute for him to relax into the embrace.

"You were gone for quite awhile," Knives said, managing to keep disapproval from his voice.

"I know, I'm sorry." It wasn't an answer to the question Knives hadn't asked, and they both knew it.

"They've run more tests?"

"I don't want to talk about that today, okay?"

"You never want to talk about that. Then what do you want to talk about, hmm? Do you want to tell me about the detective?"

Vash plopped down onto the water. It took his weight perfectly, soothingly. "That obvious?"

"Between you and me?"

Vash knew what he meant. Quite simply, they 'got' each other. Knives' often unpredictable moods, his darker ambitions: Vash could see them all when he looked at the man. Knives, similarly, could take one look at Vash and pinpoint the cause of his joy or dismay. Fat lot of good this kind of understanding did them, Vash thought bitterly. They'd talk together for an hour or two in their strange little paradise and then he'd leave Knives in his prison like he always did. Seeing him in the lifeless cell today had been a very effective reminder that the people who meant the most to him all had criminal records and that everything that would make the world perfect was impossible. He couldn't embrace his brother in the real world.

And his boyfriend was as messed up as they came.

"I just," he tried, then started again. "It's not what I thought it would be like."

Knives hid his scowl. "What, the sex is terribly unfulfilling and you just can't tolerate a man with no stamina?"

Vash raised an eyebrow. "Was that a joke?"

"I'm not sure." He licked his lips as he thought. "Maybe."

"Oh. Well, good for you." Vash's face scrunched up as he tried to remember the thread of the conversation. "Oh, right. Sex. No, that's not the problem at all. Believe me," he said emphatically. The black look his brother gave him was ignored.

"It's everything else. It's the secrets and the lies. I don't think you can build anything meaningful with those in the way."

"That's all they know, Vash," Knives said as he sat beside him. "They don't know how do be anything than what they are."

Vash shook his head. "Does it bother you that you can twist every conversation into something ugly and hateful?"

Biting back his retort took every ounce of his willpower. "I'm trying to help you see the real root of your problem. Even if all the lies were revealed today, he'd just tell more tomorrow."

Vash looked away from Knives' imploring, open face, for once, not taken in by the beauty of the sky and clouds and water. Or that of his brother. "You know, he makes me happy, when he's not making me miserable."

"Is that enough?" Knives asked in a tone of voice that suggested that he thought it shouldn't be.

"For now?" Vash laughed, elated by the simple solution to his problem. "Yeah. It's enough for now."

* * *

Wolfwood knew Scanlon would be furious with him if he got wind of this, but he also didn't care. Scanlon had no hold over him. And even if he brought the full power of the law against him, Wolfwood wanted to see the prison that could hold him. 

Meir was excited today. He said that Neon was 'making his move' and Wolfwood knew he'd have to check the police scanners and newspapers for the next few days to see how many bodies were uncovered in the river. If Neon was making war against Livio, things could get ugly quick. The only question was how ugly did it have to get before Livio called in help?

The dance hall where they had agreed to meet was neutral territory, but only just barely. Men in dark suits glared at each other from across the dance floor. Wolfwood recognized more than a few of them and the cop in him wanted to arrest them all. The man he'd become told him to back down.

"Livio's got soldiers here," he said casually, just in case Meir hadn't noticed. Meir shrugged his indifference. "They can't do nothing without their boss. They never can. The whole lot of em's useless."

They talked for a few minutes more, Wolfwood exchanging selective bits of what he knew for what Meir was willing to tell him. If Livio showed his face around town anywhere, Wolfwood was sure he'd hear something.

"Don't let your men hurt him," he said once again. Meir rolled his eyes. "You're weird. You want him taken down, but you want him alive?"

"It's not him I'm after," Wolfwood said without worry of Meir trying to dig too deeply. "He's a small piece of the bigger picture."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. You've got your world, but mine don't extend past this town, yeah? Anyway, I made a promise and I'll keep it. More importantly, Neon made a promise and that's as good as gold. Livio shows, you'll be the first to know _and _we won't even shoot in his general direction." He shook his head again. "We may owe you a big favor, but I can't figure you for the world."

Wolfwood only smiled and then sent the Bad Lad lieutenant on his way. Meir, for all that he was a dirty, scheming, murdering errand boy, wasn't such a bad guy, Wolfwood figured. And with any luck, his scheming would lead him to Legato.

He had a few drinks to celebrate, sat back and watched the young and reckless enjoy being young and reckless on the floor. More than a few men were dancing lewdly, with women and with men. A line of four men were sliding together obscenely. Wolfwood let his eyes take in the sight with a smile before swerving back to the two ladies on the bar who were rubbing their bodies together prettily. Sometimes he loved this town.

It was several drinks more when a tall and handsome man with startling blue eyes approached him to ask for a dance. Wolfwood didn't see the harm in dancing. He followed him onto the floor. The pace of the music was heavy and thundering, perfect for the kind of dancing this guy wanted to do. Legs interlocked, they moved like lovers on the floor. Wolfwood wrapped his arms around the man, buried his face against his neck and rode it out. He knew they were being watched; a few people cat called and both he and the stranger got a laugh out of that. There was a strong hand on his ass, pulling him closer to the heat and hardness. The music changed into something slower, more sensual. They switched again, Wolfwood moving behind the man, letting him slide his ass against his crotch. It was hot dancing like this; he was turned on, as was the stranger if the bulge in his pants was any indication. When the music stopped, the stranger swayed close to his lips, only veering to the side at the last minute.

"Come home with me, tonight. Let me be your good time," he whispered into Wolfwood's ear. Wolfwood looked at him, considering. He was really very good looking with an amazing body and obvious passion. "Tempting, but I don't think I'm sober enough to enjoy it," he said honestly. This got a laugh from the stranger. "Well, then, maybe another night?" He slid a card into the back pocket of Wolfwood's slacks. "Please?"

"Yeah, another night," Wolfwood lied. Mentally he was telling Vash, 'See, I _tried _to be a saint. Are you happy?' He gave the guy one last look as he walked away and to the door. "You have no idea what I'm giving up for you," he mumbled with a smile. Then he managed to get home with little to no trouble outside of stumbling over the curb once or twice. He didn't even fumble with the key to his house. Part of him was justifiably worried over the fact that he was getting even better at holding his liquor.

Without a shower, without even a late night smoke, he crashed. The most he did was loosen the button of his shirt. His body was thrumming from that dance, but he was thinking about Vash. He slept and dreamt that he was standing on an endless lake of water under a blue sky. He'd never been to such a place before, so the image seemed even more intangible and dreamlike. The edges of the world were blurred and unfinished. Vash was standing in the distance, and when he sensed his presence, he turned.

"You don't belong here," he said with a cold expression on his porcelain face.

Wolfwood awoke with a gasping scream when his hands were cruelly bound over his head.

"Legato," he hissed and squirmed. Of course he couldn't move. Legato's power was truly beyond anything.

The pale haired man stooped down low, kissed him roughly and then clawed his hands, dragging them down in a swift motion. The clothing that ripped from his body had a fair amount of skin go with it. Legato's nails made him bite his lip and arch his back.

"Chapel," Legato said. "The last time we met, when I gave you these," he said, indicating the scars that had so bothered Vash, "I thought that you were running from me, now I see you've been hunting me. I'm flattered. How long ago was that last time? A month? Two? Did you miss me?"

"Get the fuck out of my bed."

"After you've worked so hard to find me, setting up Livio in hopes of capturing me?" He leaned down low and ran his tongue over Wolfwood's jaw. "Either way, it's been too long since I last tasted you. I don't want to go. You don't want me to go. I saw you tonight, dancing like the whore you are."

"Let me go," Wolfwood said, but there was a hitch in his voice.

"Was that for me? Did you know I was watching? Everyone was watching you and all of them wished they could do to you what I'm doing now." The lick turned into a bite at his throat and then at his collarbone. Wolfwood squirmed. "The man who danced with you wanted you so much that I could still smell his lust on him when I killed him," Legato said matter-of-factly.

"You—fuck you."

"No, fuck _you_."

His legs were forced apart and his already leaking cock was massaged, but not by a hand.

"Damn," Wolfwood hissed. Were there no limits to what the man could do with his mind?

And no, there weren't.

All too soon, a thick, blunt pressure was pushing into him. "No," he said, panicking. "Not like that."

"You can take all kinds of pain, Chapel. You were born to take it."

His mouth opened wide and a strangled scream ripped from his throat. It was inside him, spreading him apart, filling him up. It pushed in deeper—as deep as any cock could go—and then the pain started when it went beyond that. Thicker, harder, more unyielding.

"Stop! God, stop," Wolfwood begged and felt a hot tear slide down his cheek.

"No," Legato said. The power withdrew, slammed back in and Wolfwood's cock leaked, twitching against his stomach.

"Fuck!"

Legato was studying him. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it?" In reply, Wolfwood bit into his lip so hard it bled and opened his legs wider. "No, don't..."

"You need this."

"No."

"Yes. You always need this to be rape. It's the only way you can understand it. You need somebody to take the choice away from you. It's easier for you like this. No thinking, no searching, no regrets."

"I-I..."

"Need what I can give you," Legato finished and forced his power into him again and again at a brutal pace that had Wolfwood coming in spurts not too long after. Then Legato's power simply dissipated. Without the phenomenon of something withdrawing, the feeling was bizarre and unnatural. There were too many sensations all at once for him to really feel when Legato's cock took the place of his mysterious power, sliding into him easily. He sighed in contentment and pulled Wolfwood closer.

"Does it hurt?" Legato whispered in his ear, motionless for the moment though potential energy twitched inside him.

"No," Wolfwood admitted and, contrary to every part of him that wanted this to stop, moved his hips to bring that thickness in and out. His breath hitched and then fluttered. "The pain stopped."

Legato kissed along his jaw, catching the salt of tears on his lips. "How does it feel now? Tell me. Be honest."

"Good. You feel good." In and out, opening him wide, stretching the walls inside him and making him feel so full.

He nuzzled against Wolfwood's ear. "That's what being with you is like: everything stops."

Wolfwood tossed his head, sweat flying off him in hot drops. Legato looked down at him, mesmerized by the dark skinned man with his mouth wide open, panting in pleasure and pain.

"Everything you were supposed to be, you weren't. So why can't I kill you?" he said, almost in a sob. "Why can't I end this?"

"Finish it," Wolfwood gasped. So he did.

He took him then, not gently, but thoroughly and neither man said a thing later about how—not for the first time—they came screaming each other's names, but they both noticed.

* * *

Wolfwood awoke to the feeling of being close to someone. The sun hurt his eyes so he squeezed them back together and simply enjoyed the moment. To wake up next to someone in broad, screaming daylight was truly a new experience. With his tastes, he usually spent a lot of time stumbling home battered and alone after a one-night encounter or being left somewhere to recuperate. Even his first time with Vash, the busy man had left in the early hours of the morning. 

The man beside him now was breathing steadily near his ear and making soft noises with each inhale. The most thrilling thing of all was also the most mundane: he was holding his hand, or rather, they were holding each other's hands. That kind of closeness was rare and precious.

He smiled. It was just the kind of thing he expected from Vash. Vash, he thought and smiled. Finally being in the same city with Vash and able to touch him. Finally being able to kiss him and hold him. It was the most pleasant idea he'd had to wake up to in a very long time. He opened his eyes.

Platinum hair and skin as pale as milk bathed by sunlight greeted him. Not Vash. Not Vash at all. Last night came back to him with the impact of a brick falling from heaven onto his head. He reeled back and the motion awakened Legato.

"Hmmm?" the killer mumbled. He sat up and looked around, smacking his lips sleepily. When his eyes fell on Wolfwood, they went wide and confused.

Seeing such a terrified expression on Legato's face, Wolfwood got a fair idea of what his own must look like. "Y-you're still here," he said.

Legato nodded dumbly. "Yes."

"_Why_ are you still here?"

"I don't know." He looked around at the room, his hair sticking to his cheek on the left side. It was strange to see him in such a human light, waking up first thing in the morning with bleary eyes and kitten breath. Legato suddenly frowned, almost childishly. "Why does it bother you so much?"

And now Wolfwood frowned. "Um...I..." He wanted to say something sharp and ugly, but the truth fought its way out instead. "I think it's the daylight. I'm not _used_ to seeing you in the daylight. You have a habit of sneaking up on me in the dark and, well, you know the rest."

Legato nodded again. He was regarding Wolfwood steadily. "Like last night."

"Yeah," Wolfwood said with a thick voice. He squirmed when his body started to tighten and harden. He was still achingly sore and it didn't matter. "_Just_ like that."

Legato's eyes dilated and his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

And suddenly, Wolfwood knew something had changed. He thought it was bizarre that it was not the morning after conversation with a serial killer that signaled his revelation. Nor was it the fact that he hadn't tried to throw the man out even once. It was, instead, the primal memory of his body telling him that last night had been good, that Legato knew it had been good, and that they both knew it could—and probably would—happen again, and soon.

Simply, he knew something had changed when he caught himself entertaining the idea that this could work. This being...whatever it was between them.

Commenting on the argument in his head, Wolfwood blurted out, "Ah, _hell_ no."

Legato didn't miss a beat as if he were privy to Wolfwood's inner debate. "And why not?" he asked and crawled towards Wolfwood who, once again didn't try to stop him. It was infuriating how he lost control around him, even when his body was under his own power. "I know what you want. I can give you what you need."

Wolfwood shook his head when his dry throat refused to make words. Legato was potent above him and he sank down onto the sheets until he was small and low before him.

"I'm with Vash," he said weakly.

"Don't think I don't know. You _smell _like him." He looked off into the distance, disgusted. "But he won't hurt you. He won't make you bleed, even if you ask for it."

Wolfwood winced. He was remembering Vash's exclamation the night they first slept together.

_"I can't do it. I can't hurt you."_

It had been good with Vash. That should have been the bottom line, but was it? Would painless, sweet, passionate sex with Vash carry through the years? Or, one day, would he wake up, aching for a little blood? And could he have his cake and eat it, too? Catching himself thinking such troublesome thoughts, he forced his mind back to the real issue.

"You're a killer," he said after a moment and made his expression harden in disapproval.

Legato reached out a hand and cupped Wolfwood's stubbled cheek. "You calm me."

"Oh, no, no, no. We are not having this discussion. We're not_ dating._"

"No, we're fucking, there's a difference."

Wolfwood covered his eyes with his forearm. "Jesus H. Christ," he groaned.

Legato looked down at him, considering. "You always scorned me for not knowing what I wanted, Chapel. I've been trying to make you realize that now I do. We keep finding each other and you keep neglecting to arrest me."

Wolfwood rolled his eyes. "Well, if it keeps you from killing innocent people, then I guess I'll just have to put out an extra towel for you. Do you shower in the morning or at night? How do you like your eggs? Are you a Sagittarian? Do you like long walks on the beach? Jesus."

Legato's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. "Making room in your life for me for the greater good? How noble."

The slap across his face was such a surprise that Wolfwood's body took a moment to react. Slowly it bloomed into heat. His pulse quickened. Legato's knowing smile was terrible to look at. Still, he arched off the bed when Legato slapped him again.

"Tell me you want me to stop."

Wolfwood was trembling. "I want you to stop."

"You're a liar." He dug his fingers into Wolfwood's hair and pulled him up. After a moment of tense struggle that left Wolfwood panting, Legato forced Wolfwood's head between his legs.

"Show me what I can make you do," he said. "Show me how I can control you."

Wolfwood opened his mouth and did as he was told. His body was under his own control and yet he didn't run. Legato's power was dormant and resting and he didn't fight. His mind was his own and yet he opened wide, swallowed around the head and licked up the vein.

Nothing was right. He didn't think of Vash. He thought of pain and weakness and came with Legato's cock down his throat. When he swallowed the salty come, he did so greedily.

After what felt like a lifetime, he rested in Legato's arms, body loose and tense all at once. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, to be here with him. Certainly it felt nothing like the closeness he felt beside Vash, the security and warmth. This felt tense and strong and overbearing. It felt like it would devour him and that he might like it.

Legato kissed his temple. "Meet me this afternoon," he said.

Wolfwood swallowed and heard his voice as if from far away ask, "Where?"

"I don't care. Go wherever you want. I'll find you. I'll always find you."

Wolfwood turned to face him, terrified and thrilled all at once. It was true: Legato could always find him. He'd chased him across the country, hadn't he? There was nowhere he could go where Legato wouldn't, couldn't follow.

"How? How do you know where I am?" he asked, though he didn't truly want to know.

Legato kissed him in answer, and maybe, somehow, he understood anyway.

* * *

He didn't know when Legato finally left. He was so exhausted, emotionally and physically that he slept without dreaming. The sun was higher in the sky when he awoke. Vash was calling. He answered with a mouth that tasted like Legato. 

"Morning," Vash said. He sounded too cheerful, desperate to make some sense out of the mess they were in. His determination to make their last fight unimportant only made it stand out more starkly.

"Good morning," Wolfwood said. _I fucked Legato last night, again, _he didn't say._ And the next time we're together, you'll see the scars and you'll pretend not to know where they came from. Because you do know, don't you? _Suddenly, the truth of it all came to him. Vash knew, better than anyone had rights to, what was between he and Legato. He knew and was pretending not to. _Why are you doing this, Vash?_ he wanted to ask.

"I want to see you," Vash said with raw honesty in his voice.

Wolfwood found himself smiling a sad, defeated smile. _I don't deserve you. But I want you so bad it aches._

"I suppose I could squeeze you in," he said.

"This afternoon?"

"Make it tonight and I'll be there with bells on." Wolfwood sat up in bed. "Where are you? You sound far away."

Vash laughed. "Nowhere so far that I can't be there by nightfall."

"Then I'll be here."

"I'll call you."

The connection was severed and Wolfwood looked up at the morning sunshine outside his window. He was going to see Vash.

He'd just been fucked by Legato and he was going to go see him again.

He looked at himself in the mirror, called himself a name that so many men had called him in his life. The one that stung the most made him grit his teeth. Gruff and alcohol scented, he could feel the word against his neck.

It made him want to hurt something. It made him want to be hurt.

He had an appointment to keep.

And all at once, he knew exactly where he would meet Legato.

* * *

Wolfwood shifted, ill at ease. The tree he was leaning on was more worn than he remembered. He suspected it was dying. It was fitting, somehow, that even the trees near this place couldn't thrive. It was closer to evening now, but he didn't think for a minute that he wouldn't come. 

The rustle of leaves to his left made him stand up. He gave the cigarette dangling off his lip a long drag, but it tasted bad quite suddenly. Tossing it to the side, he let his eyes travel over the low headstones. Here and there were angels turned away in mourning, wings unfurled behind them. Here and there were well kept graves adorned with fresh flowers. Of all the graves nearby, only this one was desolate, overgrown, and unkempt. If there had been flowers, he would have taken them away himself, given them to someone deserving.

Legato stepped through the graveyard with long strides, his eyes lowered. Wolfwood watched him, remembering the warmth of waking beside him.

He was silent at first, looking around him and then at Wolfwood. The setting sun was behind his broad shoulders and Wolfwood squinted against it. It made his narrow eyes narrow even further. He looked more closed off than ever, unapproachable. Things had changed between them. The crisp early autumn air seemed an omen to the fact that, no matter what they thought, no matter what they tried to do, nothing was the same anymore. They had agreed to meet, but now that they had, the atmosphere between them was confused. The look in Legato's eyes was uncertain and uneasy. After a long, tension filled moment where they only stared at one another, Legato asked, "What is this place?"

Wolfwood moved to a headstone that bore a name and a date with no epitaph. His smile was not humorous. "You asked me once," he began, "who I killed to make the world a better place." He paused and slapped his hand on the cold stone.

Legato moved closer, circling the grave to read the name. If he understood the circumstances, if he understood anything at all, he didn't say. Instead he asked, "Why are you showing me this?"

They stood two feet apart now, divided by the headstone. Wolfwood shook his head. "I don't know."

Legato's jaw clenched. "He hurt you?"

"It was a long time ago." He shrugged indifference he didn't feel.

"Was it really? Do you think of him when I'm controlling you? Do I remind you of him?"

"Yes," said quietly, more a whisper than anything else.

Legato tilted his head to the side. "What do you want?"

Wolfwood's first thought was 'Vash' but he wondered if it was as true as it had once been not so long ago. Then it hadn't been merely true, it had been the _only _truth, the one thing that had mattered to him and kept him going.

Now he had this thing with Legato, a killer, and Wolfwood had to wonder if he was the last holdout in this triangle, the only one with no fucking clue. Legato himself was far too certain about far too many things. "I don't know," Wolfwood said once again.

Legato looked around at the clear day, then back at Wolfwood. "Do you want me to tell you what to want? Do you want me to make you admit what you are?"

"No. Yes." He shrugged a little helplessly. "I don't know."

A blast of pain ran from his neck and down, settling in his gut like he'd swallowed embers. It burned low and then flared to life. He turned his head away, braced himself on the headstone of the man who had raped and beat him again and again.

"Tell me," Legato hissed. "Now."

"Okay," Wolfwood groaned through his clenched teeth. "For whatever sick reason, we are what the other...wants? Needs? Hell, I don't know. Ahh! You can't kill me for whatever reason...and I can't stop how I react to you."

The pain dissipated.

"And?" Legato asked, waiting for him to complete the puzzle, to put the rest together. As if merely knowing the truth in the darkest parts of their minds wasn't enough: they had to have this out in the open.

"And nothing. This is pretty fucked up. Even you have to admit that this is fucked up." He lowered his eyes, staring at the grass at his feet.

Wolfwood waited for Legato to reply to that, but wasn't really surprised when he didn't. When he heard the other man's soft footsteps crunching the leaves as he walked away, he looked up, saw the strong line of his back and only wanted to follow him where he was going. Legato paused and waited for him to do just that.

He was only mildly surprised by where they ended up. The night was still young, but the youth of the world got started early. He and Legato weren't young anymore, certainly not in spirit, but time was short.

He'd see Vash tonight, purge himself of the darkness Legato infected him with by bathing in the light Vash cast. But for now...

On a floor packed with bodies, Legato pulled him close. He had never imagined Legato, who was so cold and distant except for when he was angry or wanted to hurt, as being capable of this kind of heat. And he _burned_. It wasn't like dancing, not any kind he knew, anyway. This was like being possessed. And he held him, swayed with him, and then slowly tilted him over his arm and kissed him. People watched; people moved closer to stare.

Wolfwood didn't know what was happening. Legato's reason for this was as incomprehensible to him as Legato's reason for once murdering a room full of people just like the ones blurring in the low lights around them. A nighttime tableau, a mystery of one man's want for another. It could have been jealousy, Legato having watched him dance with another man with such abandon. A man who was now dead.

He held Legato's sharp shoulders, felt the fabric with his fingers until they tingled, barely keeping up with the shifting kiss. Like a switch flipped on, he suddenly told himself the truth.

He _did _know why.

Legato had done it for him.

He had done it for _this_.

Wolfwood opened his mouth and simply let go. As they pressed even closer, he was wondering if you could die from giving into the things you were supposed to resist. And if you could, then the question was which one of them would die first. Legato for fighting it for so long only to give in? Or him for giving in so completely, all at once, barely dancing, but feeling as if the world was?

* * *

Vash was aware of the dangers of not paying attention, but he wasn't thinking about them. He was thinking about tonight when he would go see Wolfwood. So maybe today wasn't all the great—he had to work he had to think—but tonight was going to be good. 

Conversation with Wolfwood was the same. Debates and jokes that turned into arguments and comedy routines—he had memories of that in spades. But having access to his body was all so new. He had a list of things he'd thought about for years and never been able to do making his mind tingle. He was not thinking about talking to Wolfwood tonight. He had other plans, ones that didn't involve clothing. After their fight, maybe that would be for the best. The fight stung. The fact that it didn't matter as much as it could—or maybe should have—made him breathless.

It was all so damn new.

He jangled his keys in his pocket as he skipped down the front steps of the hotel. His jeep was parked across the busy street. He looked left and then right and patiently waited for traffic to clear.

He heard the tires screech before he saw anything. The noise alone had him leaping back an impressive distance. The place where he'd been standing was now occupied by a battered van. He'd barely regained his footing when four men emerged from the car. They approached him from both side, menacing by their strangeness. One of them was a big guy with an outlandish hairstyle. He looked remarkably familiar.

It took a moment for Vash to place the face. It had been two years ago.

"Joey, the electrician?" Vash whispered to himself. It was a bizarre twist. He was being attacked by a man who had gone out of his way to help him save Wolfwood once. The shock came with a realization. Had he really been trying to help when he gave Vash the directions to the gold mine, or had he intended on sending Vash to his death on Legato's orders? What he thought he knew was having as bad a day as he was.

And with Joey approaching stealthily, he was in no position to consider it at length. The man beside Joey was thin like a dancer and graceful on his feet. The other two were goons, plain and simple.

Vash backed away, eyes darting between the faces of his attackers as he tried to plan. Which one to take out first? Which way to dodge?

The choice was taken from him when they all rushed him simultaneously. He got two of them with uppercuts that actually hurt his knuckles when they connected with jaw. The swing from the second punch had twisted him sideways and that was the problem because the big guy used his newly vulnerable position to get him around the torso, smashing his arms into his sides and lifting him off his feet.

"Get the door! I've got him!"

One of the battered-looking goons rubbed his jaw. "What makes you think you can _hold _him?"

With strength that his wiry arms failed to show, Vash wrenched the thick arms off of him and wiggled away and down into a crouch. He swept his legs around in a wide circle and the big guy went down. Goon number two had recovered enough to rush him again and got a black eye to go with his bruised jaw, tumbling back into Goon number one. And with three of them down (but not out) and the other one disoriented, Vash made a rush for his jeep. He got two steps forward before a horrible, electric pain jolted him in the back.

His body jerked and then smoked. All of this had taken less than a minute.

He went down, grateful for the numb of unconsciousness that came down upon him like a down blanket. He could hear his attackers as they gathered around him.

"He's one tough son of a bitch," one said.

"Tough don't mean shit against a taser on full power."

"We weren't supposed to hurt him."

"I'm not so sure we did."

"Shuddap, all of yous. Get him in the car 'fore somebody calls the cops."

The two nondescript goons gathered up Vash's long body, joking about how little he weighed. Once he was settled into the back of the van, they bound him with chains that looked fit for maximum-security prisoner transport. He stirred restlessly, but didn't wake as they pulled off.

"He ain't nothin' special," the slender, dark haired man said with a cackle.

From behind the wheel, the big man named Joey snorted. "You don't know nothin'. Look at him: he's the same as the boss, just some skinny pretty boy with more bone than muscle. But the boss can take care of himself. Looks can fool you. You can tell me all about it first hand when he breaks your arm like he's probably planning on doin'."

"He's unconscious."

"Is he?" Joey asked in a sinister tone.

The skinny one gave a considering look to Vash. He backed away from him carefully. "Where's that stuff? You know the stuff."

"In the case next to you."

He quickly retrieved the needle and examined it. Sweating and unsteady, he approached Vash. He didn't breath as he neared which made his shocked gasp all the more painful when it ripped from his lungs. The chains clattered to the floor.

Vash had him fast by one arm and then shoved into him with his shoulder. The force of his blow sent the man into the opposite wall and the tail of the van swerving wildly. The two goons in the seats before them could barely stand to move with the swaying of the car.

"Get him under control!"

"Pull over!"

"Hold him down!"

The lunge was so awkward and graceless that it was amazing it did any good against Vash at all, especially with Vash's equilibrium unfazed by the jerking that unbalanced everyone else. The skinny man reasoned that it didn't need to be a beautiful attack, just effective enough to get the needle where he needed it.

The best he could do was plunge it into Vash's thigh as he landed before him. Vash's eyes went wide in shock and then he went down.

Breathing erratically, the skinny guy crumpled down beside him. He was tempted to punch the guy out of spite.

"Bastard," he hissed.

"Everybody okay back there?" Joey inquired with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"You can swallow that smirk and the I-told-you-so with it," the skinny man said.

"Yeah, yeah. Maybe you'll listen to me next time about looks an' all that."

The skinny man glared down at Vash's prone body wearily. "What's next?"

"Next we make a phone call. It's a simple tradeoff: if they want theirs back, we get _ours _back."

The skinny man cackled once again. "Things just ain't the same without the boss."

"No, they're not," Joey agreed. "But we can get him back now. We have something they want."

"You're _about_ to have a broken arm," Vash said and stood. He ripped the needle from his leg and grinned menacingly at the thugs.

"Holy. Sh—"

They phrase was never finished. From outside the swerving van, it looked as if it housed horses who kicked and bucked at every side. It looked in danger of tilting at one point, but recovered when it fishtailed violently to the left, weaving in and out of on-coming traffic. Eventually, in the middle of an intersection filled with cars honking at ear-shattering levels, the truck spun out, tilted over as if it were inevitable, and came to a halt, on its side and smoking.

The curious and the foolish approached it after nothing happened for many long minutes. All along the street parked cars roared to life with the sound of their alarms, triggered by the van barreling into them or coming too close for comfort.

"It looks like a heap of junk," one man whispered. "Ain't nobody coming out of that."

"Did somebody call the cops?"

"Wait, wait. Something's moving."

The back door of the van opened to reveal a very unassuming man. Tall and blonde, he stood out more for being lanky than anything. He hopped down from the van, turned and shuffled through the jumbled debris. There was a strange groan from somewhere. The tall blonde pulled back his fist and it disappeared into the truck at remarkable speed. The groaning stopped. Then the man retrieved a cell phone and seemed about to dial when it flew from his hand.

Nothing seemed to have sent it flying, but he had felt it: a gust of wind like what brought a tornado.

Parting the crowd before him, a large, dark haired man with a grim expression emerged. He was wielding, for all intents and purposes, a samurai sword. Vash gave him points for originality.

"I should have known better than to have sent those boys to do a man's job," the man said, stance widening.

Vash squinted at the new arrival. "Oh, Ryan. It's you," he said. "I'm not even really surprised: you were always a real asshole."

"Hmph. As you like. But at least get the name right: I'm Rai Dei and while I've only pretended to be loyal to you for two years, I _am_ actually loyal to Knives."

"Maybe you've got your priorities all screwed. I'm more handsome than he his. Ask anybody."

"You're a buffoon. I have no idea how you've been able to survive this long."

Vash smiled hugely. "Good news: you get to see it firsthand." And having said that, Vash attacked. Rai Dei jerked back just in time, but had to face facts: he hadn't _seen _Vash move. Reflexes alone had made him fall into a defensive stance.

It was lucky that he had such good reflexes because Vash kept flinging attacks at him that he barely managed to avoid. For the first time since being teamed with Vash, he got to see how he truly fought. It was a shock to realize that Vash had always held back before.

Rai Dei swung a little wildly, confident because he was the one with the weapon. Vash still came at him as if the blade made little to no difference. Punch after punch after kick somehow connected, but the sword never struck Vash. It was terribly clear: Vash was faster than he was. Barely two minutes into the spar and his sword went arching through the air. He'd been disarmed by an injured, unarmed man.

Or, rather, not a man at all. This occurred to him too late to make much of a difference. He had been well and truly outclassed.

"Got the picture now?" Vash asked, barely winded.

"Burn in hell," Rai Dei managed breathlessly.

Vash smirked, got in a roundhouse kick that sent Rai Dei flying and then dusted off his sleeves. "I really think you should have seen that one coming," he said helpfully under his breath. He went for his cell phone, but never reached it. There was a scuff of feet on the pavement behind him followed by a speeding sound of air, and he half turned to it. But it was too late to get out of the way of whatever was flying towards him. It barreled into him and he knew the angle was bad the minute he went tumbling down.

Something went crack and he had the bad feeling it was him. The minute he was down, he tried to roll over, succeeded and then wished he hadn't as a fist was the last thing he saw, streaking down to his face.

Lights out. And his last thought was almost as bad as the fist: that somebody had gotten the drop on him twice and that today, yeah, today was a pretty bad day.

* * *

The warden never came to visit. He assumed it was because she was content with him rotting down here. So the fact that she was there, and that she had brought a man Knives hated seeing more than any other really intrigued him. His little half of the cellblock hadn't seen this much activity in a long time. 

"Agent Scanlon!" he said, standing and spreading his arms expansively. There was a sardonic smile on his face. "What an honor! Of all the men I wish I could gut, you're the one I hate the most!" Scanlon flinched, not at the words, but at the mannerisms accompanying them. They were unusual for Knives who was usually reserved and still. This flamboyance and humor was more like Vash. How much had they changed each other, Scanlon wondered.

"Millions, how are you holding up in your nice maximum security dog kennel today?"

"Oh, the same. They served chicken for lunch."

"That's good."

"I hate chicken."

"Oh."

Behind the warden were any number of guards, all of them looking either weary, or excessively fierce. Knives frowned. Something wasn't right.

"Where is Vash?" he asked.

The warden, a thin, no-nonsense woman named Elise Chabon, shook her head. "I'm sorry," was all she said before allowing Scanlon to step forward.

"Your brother has been taken," he said. Knives, already pale, went as white as bleached bone. "Taken?" he repeated.

"Early this afternoon, he was attacked outside his hotel by unknown assailants. He attempted to escape, but was subdued later on the highway. We have all of this from eyewitness reports."

Knives took a shaky step towards the thick glass keeping him from the world outside. "What are you doing here, then? Get my brother back! Now! Find who did this and make them pay!"

"We already know who did it. Members of your former gang have contacted us with the ransom demands."

"The FBI doesn't _negotiate_!" Knives hissed.

Chabon shook her head. "I don't think you understand. We _are_ going to negotiate. That order came from the top."

Here she signaled to the guard on her left who brandished a key. Another stepped forward with shackles Knives recognized as those used for transporting criminals outside of the prison.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, backing away from the entrance to the cage.

"Congratulations," Scanlon said. "You've just won your freedom."

* * *

Everything had been rushed through. Less than 48 hours after his abduction, the FBI had arranged an unprecedented operation to ensure the safety of Agent Vash Saverem. That morning, Scanlon had gone into the field office only to find his team listless, frightened, and in the case of Descartes and Elizabeth, angry and violent. They'd been betrayed by one of their own. Ryan had played them all for fools. Worse, he had put Vash in danger all for the sake of a madman. 

Marianne looked lost and shattered. Julius was hardly better. Even Moore and Earl were red eyed as if from lack of sleep or tears.

"They can't be serious," Marianne said. "He's the most dangerous man in America. He's the next Manson! How could they agree to release him?"

Scanlon looked at his hands as if they held the answers. "Because they want Vash returned safely. The answer is as simple as that."

"And what if something goes wrong?" Elizabeth asked.

"Then we'll try something else. We're going to get him back. You have to believe that." Scanlon himself hardly looked as if he believed it. Perhaps it would have been less painful if they had taken Vash for granted. If they had never realized how unique and talented he was, it would have made his abduction, if not tolerable than...something. But that had never been the case for some of them, and only true for a brief time with the others. No, they had all valued him.

The task force demanded to be present at the exchange. "I want to be there, just in case," Moore said.

Descartes agreed, cracking his knuckles. "Yeah, just in case some shit goes down."

Scanlon, white faced and tense himself, obliged them.

* * *

An army of feds rolled out that afternoon, stoically silent in large black vans. The destination was a little-used airport on its last leg. Here and there, airplanes rested like sleeping giants beside empty terminals. In the center of the long line of federal vehicles that entered the complex, Knives sat in a prison van with his head bowed, staring at the shackles around his wrists with a dark expression. The guards in the van with him looked on coldly. 

At the drop off point, they unloaded Knives with a fair amount of caution: their objective was to get through the entire operation with as little strife as possible. Scanlon was efficient and cool as he handed out orders and positioned his men.

Knives Millions stepped off the back of the armored wagon, escorted by Scanlon on his right, Marianne on his left, and Julius at his back. Across the way, the beat up van where they assumed Vash was hidden was waiting. It was surrounded by several other cars with no plates or markings. These opened and a gang of men emerged, each one toting a weapon. In short order, several big men stepped from the old van. Vash was pulled violently down onto the pavement. Only Marianne heard Knives' hiss of anger.

There was a moment when the feds and the gang regarded each other like soldiers across a battlefield.

Then Rai Dei was moving Vash forward by jerking him harshly. He didn't approach alone. At his back, over a dozen dangerous looking men and women followed. They all brandished their weapons and seemed itchy to use them.

Knives marched when told to do so, eyes trained angrily on the men before him. Everything was tense in the evening sun, too many weapons and dangerous men in one place at one time.

At last, they came to the center of the tarmac. Knives and Vash stood face to face without the glass for the first time. Knives felt something unclench inside him. He smiled and it reached his eyes. Vash smiled back.

"Hey, you," Vash said.

"Hey."

"You're much more handsome outside of jail."

"Release him," the man once known as Ryan said harshly to Marianne and Scanlon. Marianne unleashed a slew of ugly words at him and spat at his feet.

"Control yourself," Rai Dei scolded. "Talk like that and the world might realize what a cheap, worthless tramp you are."

Scanlon restrained her. "We want our agent back," he said.

Rai Dei shook his head. "We don't trust you at all, boss man. We'll do it all at the same time. But first, uncuff him or no deal."

He didn't seem to notice the hateful look Knives gave him.

Scanlon and Marianne shared a look. Finally, Scanlon nodded. Then he unlocked the shackles at Knives' wrists, neck and ankles. As he moved, he talked, laying down terms. Once Knives was free, he took a step back, hands up. "Okay, we played by your rules. Just leave Agent Saverem here and walk away."

Knives was rubbing at his free wrists. He looked so young and fresh that Marianne found herself unbalanced. She couldn't resolve the killer in her mind with the boy before her, relishing his freedom.

"Vash," Knives said with wonder in his voice. "I'm free."

"Yeah," Vash replied thickly. "Go."

"I'm _free_."

"What, do you want to play patty-cakes or something? Get _going_," Vash huffed.

"Master, _please_," Rai Dei hissed.

"Give me a moment!" Knives whirled to him and snapped. He turned again to his brother, all anger gone from his face. "This is how it was always supposed to be between us," he said. Vash nodded, understanding that he meant _without walls or prisons or shackles. _

He backed away, eyes trained on his brother. "Always."

At Rai Dei's frantic cries, he finally turned and ran towards the van.

Already Scanlon and Marianne were on Vash, untying his wrists and trying to move him without injuring him further: it was pretty obvious that he'd been beaten.

"Are you really okay?" Marianne asked, throwing her arms around him despite Scanlon's disapproving glare. He hugged her back. "Yeah. Mostly."

He wanted to add that his heart hurt and that he had missed an important date, but kept his mouth shut. Marianne, more than he, needed the comfort.

* * *

Knives stood before the doors to the van, protected by a wall of soldiers loyal to him. They brandished their guns, keeping the world away while Knives inured himself to the idea that he could move wherever he wanted. He stretched his arms wide. 

Free again for the first time in two years.

Across the way, the feds were converging on his brother, touching him, crowding around them. His jaw clenched.

Rai Dei was still trying to rush him, certain that the minute the feds could, they _would _be after them again. Knives smirked at the idea that they'd catch him so easily. It had taken _Vash _to catch him the last time. Ordinary feds wouldn't stand a chance. He looked at Rai Dei with a grim smile stretched wide across his face.

"I'm free. I have you to thank."

"I live to serve you."

"Don't you, though? There is, however, one thing with your plan that I find distasteful."

"M-master, have I displeased you?" Rai Dei's eyes darted back and forth between Knives and his former federal allies. He licked his lips and it was clear he would rather be anywhere else. Knives realized that he had never seen the man frightened before. But this terror was not caused by him. He looked to where Rai Dei was staring: directly at Vash who was being ushered away, back into the welcoming arms of the FBI. The once recklessly bold Rai Dei was afraid of his brother and the idea was comical because, at the moment, the real danger was much, much closer.

"Indeed, you have. Did it ever occur to you that I would have left on my own eventually?"

"But then...why didn't you?"

"I was waiting for someone. Someone that you've used to bargain for my release. Now, knowing that he means so much to me, imagine how I must feel. I am free, but he is still a tool for the government machine. Do you suppose this pleases me?"

"N-no...?"

"No, you stupid child: it doesn't."

Knives turned back to the scene, aware of the feds who were, indeed, looking for a window to snatch him back. Over his shoulder, he said, "Gentlemen, I've had a change of heart."

His smile was wild and bright. "If you don't mind, I think I want my brother back."

There was a pause and then someone said, "You heard the man." There was a click-click of guns cocking. "Move out. Hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast."

The van rolled out, storming across the asphalt, men firing from the windows. The first volley of bullets was met in kind. But the feds, no matter how well-trained and prepared, were outclassed.

Rai Dei leapt into the foray with enthusiasm, the smaller E.G. Mine at his back. Bullets seemed to slide past them. The rest of the gang, human and barely, advanced.

Knives walked calmly through the fire fight, through the madness he had caused. He already knew his destination.

It was only when a wild volley of gunfire caused a federal van to suddenly erupt into flame that his calm shattered. The gas tank had been pierced, and the van erupted in a vomiting cloud of debris and smoke and flame. Bodies fell away from the blast.

The van itself seemed to leap into the air, then tumble over onto its back like a dead fish. Then the screams started.

One scream was louder than all the others. "VASH!" Knives wailed as his brother's form was obscured in the billowing cloud of dust and fire. There was a secondary explosion and he thought he saw a body flying through the destruction.

His world went blindingly silent. He could taste the color of red anger. Nothing made sense.

And then real chaos began as Knives let his anger be known.

* * *

Most of the blasts and shouts and bullets had stopped. Now there was just the aftermath. The smoke cleared before his face just enough for him to see a tire less than ten feet away. He pulled his injured arm close to his body and used the other to pull himself forward. He could feel cuts everywhere, blood threatening to run into his eyes. Quite suddenly, he was aware of a voice. 

It was inside him and all around him, echoing like a waterfall.

"Rai Dei," it said.

"Master?"

Then daggers of pain were shooting up his body, as if he were being stabbed over and over. He screamed, rolled onto his back and arched, trying to elude the sensation of being butchered alive.

"Please! Master! What did I do?"

"Vash," was the answer. "You hurt him."

"No! I swear! I didn't lay a finger on him!" he screamed, lying as a last resort.

"Perhaps not, but it was your plan. I'd make you swear never to hurt him again, but I have a much better idea."

Rai Dei felt a tightening in his body, everything squeezing inwards, contracting like a giant muscle. He wasn't alive to feel the rest.

Knives strode forward through the ash and smoke and looked down at the mess he'd made. "You'll never hurt him again, now will you?"

And then he backed away. He was certain the smoke gave him enough cover that there was no reason to hurry. He navigated the littered collection of bodies nearest the blast, somewhat fearful that he had misjudged. He hadn't.

"Vash," he said and dropped onto one knee beside his brother. Vash's eyes were open, but wild.

"Knives? Why can't I hear?"

"You were too close to the blast," he answered, knowing his brother couldn't hear, but wanting to offer some kind of comfort. He pulled him up into his arms. His hands wouldn't stay still; they kept gliding over Vash's arms and torso, checking for wounds or damage of any kind. It took a moment for him to identify the fluttering anxiousness in his stomach as fear. He was so terribly afraid that Vash was hurt or worse that he could hear the rushing of his blood through his body, three times as fast as it was supposed to be; the banging recklessness of his heart on adrenaline.

He pulled Vash close and then closer. "You're fine now. I have you." Holding him felt good.

Lifting him and staggering forward once again, Knives let his feet lead him to a car left abandoned by the feds. The keys were in the ignition. He deposited Vash in the back seat, securing him as best as he could with what he could find. He looked around for the remains of his gang, called to them. They signaled back their understanding, ready to flee. That complete, he took the wheel, panicked enough to drive a little carelessly until he reminded himself of his cargo.

"We're together now," he whispered.

* * *

Wolfwood wasn't sure how he was standing. His fear was that he was going to faint or something equally over the top. He put the key in the lock and realized he wasn't quite breathing. Vash was gone and the world was the piece of shit place he'd always known it to be. 

Scanlon had contacted him soon after he received the ransom call. That was two days ago.

"Detective Wolfwood," he had called him. That alone had let him know something was wrong. And then the bottom had fallen out of everything. The man's assurances that the FBI was doing everything in their power to get Vash back failed to console him.

He'd been dancing with Legato while Vash was fighting for his life. And what if the worst had happened?

If he had known back in that bar that the bliss of finally having Vash would be so tainted by the pain of losing him soon after, he would have run the other way.

His fears were realized as the news showed a shaky image of an airfield, or what had once been an airfield. Billows of smoke clouded the view and fire leapt defiantly in the face of fire hoses. A reporter with windblown hair explained the scene. There had been an operation to retrieve a high-ranking FBI official. It had all gone terribly wrong and now a criminal was on the loose and the federal agent had once again been taken captive. They had yet to receive further ransom demands from the men responsible. Wolfwood felt himself go numb from the top of his head down to his feet.

Knives' rescuers had double-crossed Scanlon. Instead of returning Vash in exchange for their boss' safety, they had kept him. Wolfwood understood all too well: they had no intention of trading Vash for further favors. Vash was what they wanted. They were going to hold him, risking the wrath of the entire FBI.

He shut off the TV. It was silent in his apartment. If his old T.O. were here, he'd say that life moved on. He'd tell him to get back to the case, that he could help the world best by taking down Livio, not worrying about what Knives planned to do with Vash and why.

He was a day, maybe two, away from a major break. He didn't give a fuck. What everything boiled down to was that he wanted Vash back, now, and that he was capable of doing some crazy shit to make that happen. He was supposed to have had Vash, in his crappy house that was only ever any good when Vash was in it, to himself. He was supposed to have been able to make it up to him. The fights, the lies, the years of nothing when there should have been _something_. All he had now was the empty room and the cold bed and the sick, worried feeling in his gut.

Yes, he was capable and willing of many things to remedy the problem.

He thought of the utmost extreme, the most terrible thing you could do for someone. He tried to conjure up the disgust that he knew Vash would expect and absolutely couldn't.

No, he was more than willing to do that, too. If it got Vash back, it was a sin of the lesser kind, if only for one day.

And as for other sins, they were drops in the bucket. One sin in particular, one demon in particular, he would face without regret.

When he made his decision, it was with relief. He was already up and out the door before his mind had even put together the details.

* * *

Out of sight, hidden from Wolfwood as he strapped on his helmet, a radio buzzed to life in a solitary van. 

"He's on the move," a man said into the radio. On the receiving end, his voice came out grainy, like an old record.

"Keep on him," a voice Wolfwood would have found familiar replied. "We'll have the teams ready."

The grubby bike pulled into the street, Wolfwood unaware of the dark van that followed so closely.

* * *

It was the pristine world again, blue and ethereal. He was on his back and Rem was talking to him. 

She wasn't how he remembered her. She was too young, too wide-eyed. It was the way she had looked before she married Alex. He had only ever seen her this way in pictures.

She ran a hand down his face. Framed by the sky and the white clouds behind her, she seemed angelic.

"Rem, everything hurts," he said. For the first time in his life, he wondered if he should call her mom. He knew it was only because it would make him feel more normal.

"Oh, baby, shhh. Don't worry about that now. That's how you know you're alive. Worry when it stops hurting," she answered.

He was speechless for a moment, the bizarre overlap making him sputter. As if his mind were trying to correct the discrepancy, quite suddenly, his adopted mother's long hair morphed, became shorter and darker. Her features changed.

"Nick," he said softly, looking up at his partner. Wolfwood framed by the same blue sky did not seem angelic. It was impossible for Wolfwood to look like anything other than what he was: a wolf in wolf's clothing. Vash knew it was a dream now—that he wasn't truly in the strange world he shared with his brother. His subconscious had conjured it up and given him what he needed most, who he needed most.

"Hey, partner," the Wolfwood in his mind answered. He smiled winningly, just a hint of wry humor in the expression, and Vash was taken aback. This was his partner from over four years ago. It was the confident, camera-loving detective who had charmed a whole city, sarcastic and only a little dark. The tired, almost haggard, beaten and cynical man who he had become was like a bad memory here. The inconsistency was the beginning of his return to reality. He could feel the dream weakening at the edges, fading away like the farther reaches of a digital world in a video game.

Wolfwood looked up at the patches of sky that were no longer holding together. He lifted his brows at Vash. "You brought me here for a reason?"

Vash nodded stiffly, realizing that he had, indeed, conjured the man for a purpose. He had something he wanted to tell him. So he whispered the truth and it was even harder to say than he had imagined. He spoke for a long time, adding details that he knew weren't necessary. When he was finished, he waited.

Wolfwood's reaction was surprising. He cupped Vash's cheek. "Between you and me, none of that matters."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. I think we both know what _really_ matters." There was a playful leer to his expression and Vash wanted to laugh.

Quite suddenly, he felt his body relax, relieved. As the sky above him began to flicker and Wolfwood with it, he found himself wishing intensely that this wasn't a dream, that he could have really told Wolfwood the truth. That he would grant him understanding once he did.

The last thing Wolfwood said as reality sank in was, "We are," and Vash didn't know if that was the beginning of a sentence of the whole of it. And then the shocking sound of his own breathing was all he could hear, the dream fading away, a memory lost to him forever.

* * *

Vash awoke surrounded by soft white. His mind slowly resolved the image into one of crisp cotton sheets pooling around him. He sat up. He was in a quaint room in whites and pastels on a bed too comfortable to be real. It was all so surreal that he wondered if he had died after all. 

The pain all over his body told him that he was very much alive. He wasn't exactly sure what was broken or just sprained, but he had serious reasons to worry about his legs.

Tranquil ocean noises reached his ears and the sound of gulls swooping overhead joined in on the chorus.

To his left was a door. He was thinking of climbing out of bed just as it opened. Knives came into the room with a tray of ice water, pain killers, and a damp cloth. Seeing Vash, he sat everything down on a nearby table and hurried over. Neither man spoke, not even when Knives was sitting on the bed beside him, one leg hitched up onto the sheets and the other planted firmly on the ground. He leaned forward and caught Vash by the shoulders. His eyes scanned over his face and body, double checking what he already knew.

"You're fine," he said, relief in his face and words.

When Vash nodded, the expression increased tenfold. An irresistible lightness seemed to buoy Knives up, a strange feeling of joy. He felt it so strongly that he couldn't stop himself: he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Vash's. Both of them froze at the contact, eyes open and surprised. Yet, even shocked by his own actions as he was, Knives didn't break the kiss, nor did he deepen it.

He didn't know what it meant, but knew it wasn't exactly wrong, either.

When he did pull away, it was only to kiss Vash on either cheek and then rest his forehead against his. They sat together that way until Vash gently pushed him away.

"Knives, you didn't have to do what you did. A lot of people were hurt."

Clear blue eyes went suddenly flinty. "It was for a good reason. Was I supposed to let them take you, let them continue to use you like some kind of weapon for their private war?"

"I'm there of my own volition."

"You're a tender-hearted fool and I refuse to let anyone take advantage of you again."

"But you're the exception to that?"

"This is different." He looked unblinkingly into Vash's eyes. "I'll protect you."

"I can take care of myself." That was something he believed wholeheartedly. More importantly, he knew that Wolfwood did too.

"Yes, like you did when they took you from in front of your hotel?"

"There were four of them."

"Which should have been nothing to you."

"I _did _eventually get away, you know."

"Only to fall to Rai Dei and that fool E.G. Mine. You don't know how to use the gifts you have been given. I can show you."

Here he stroked the side of Vash's face. The look in his eye said he was contemplating kissing him again.

Vash let him. In pain as he was, he fell back gratefully when Knives gently pushed him. He came to rest atop of Vash, lips soft and exploratory on his cheek, his forehead and temple.

"I can show you," he murmured. "And then you can fight back when they try to...try to touch you. And then you'll never leave me."

"Knives—"

His breath was on Vash's ear now, ticking the sensitive skin there as he spoke. "Will you stay with me? Tell me yes or no."

Vash held his breath, waiting for some solution to come to him. His brother's hands on him; his brother's mouth on him; his brother's chilling eyes probing his own, expecting an answer.

* * *

He had no idea how to make Legato come to him on any normal day. How could he be sure that Legato would come at all? When the possibility of addictive, violent sex was slim to none? Did he have to go make him jealous again by dancing with a stranger? 

He lit a cigarette, hands shaking nervously, and looked down at the gravestone. There were no answers here, just another chance to pour salt on the wound.

"Well, you son of a bitch, this is probably the most attention you've gotten in over twenty years. I'm still glad you're dead. Kill you again if I had the chance."

He dropped ash onto the grass before the headstone and smashed it down with his foot. Then he took a deep breath. "If you're here, I need to talk to you."

It was less than a minute later that Legato, dressed in a slick black shirt and white overcoat, stepped into his line of vision. "And what changed from one day to the next? Do you just need a good fuck, or is this another half-hearted attempt to arrest me?"

Wolfwood's jaw flexed. "I want answers."

"Oh, Chapel, you always want answers. It's bizarre how rarely you receive them."

"I can't fight with you now. I don't have the time or the energy."

"Oh, I see. _Detective_, then, is it?"

Wolfwood didn't rise to the bait. "I don't care what you call me, just tell me the truth. Was it you? Did you take him?"

Legato sighed. "No, Detective. Hurting your partner would be rather tasteless in light of our particular arrangement, don't you think?"

Wolfwood almost took a step back, so hard did those words strike him. Is that what they had? An 'arrangement'? He didn't want to think about their bizarre relationship in such brutally forward terms. It made it too fatalistic, as if there had never been a chance for him to win at all. More than that, it made it seem as if he had known all along and had played along to satisfy his, and Legato's, desires.

The issue was too volatile for him to approach. He avoided it all together, saying, "You didn't take him, but you know who did."

"I know and so do you. _Who_ has him is not the mystery here, is it?" His voice was snappish, almost childish with irritation. Wolfwood realized that there was more here to Legato's anger than simple irritation, but didn't have the time to care.

He blinked while shaking his head. "Where is he?"

"Telling you is equivalent to sending you to your death."

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do. Obviously your partner was no match against them and you know what _he_ is." Wolfwood's troubled expression showed that he did indeed finally have an inkling in regards to the extraordinary thing that Vash was. Still...

"You have to tell me," he said at last, pleading with his eyes, though his voice was as hard as ever. "I can't sit here and do nothing. They could be leaving the city for all I know. You just have to tell me."

"No," Legato said simply. "I don't." His mouth opened nervously when he found Wolfwood in his personal space, clutching the collar of his jacket in white-knuckled fists. "Please," Wolfwood said. "Please," he repeated again and again. No other word came from his lips as he leaned closer. His face had fallen into a look of despair. "Dammit, please!"

Legato looked down at him, his eyes hardening with emotion. He pushed him away but everything about his body language said he wanted nothing but to do the opposite.

He turned away and might have cursed under his breath. What he finally said over his shoulder was, "We don't have much time. Let's go."

* * *

Legato didn't scoff at the bike. Instead, he climbed in behind Wolfwood, wrapped his arms around him and held on. Wolfwood felt his heart thunder. Even at a time like this when their bizarre relationship was the farthest thing from his mind, nothing could deny the attraction between them. 

He handed his helmet back to Legato, who didn't question the reason behind the gesture. And then with a powerful rev, Wolfwood took to the street, following Legato's directions. The day faded into dark. For a moment before the sun finally died, the sky was a marbled bowl of pinks and oranges. The jerk of the bike vibrated their bodies together and Wolfwood bit his lip.

All too soon, they were outside the city limits, heading towards open expanses of water traversed by crisscrossing bridges. Legato squeezed him to get his attention and he slowed the bike.

Silently, he parked the machine in an out of the way parking lot under a cluster of trees. It wasn't exactly well hidden, but it was easy to find again.

"This is it?" Wolfwood asked. He didn't take his eyes off of the white building below. It faced the water and looked comfortable and lush. This was obviously a place Knives had regarded as a home. His nomadic lifestyle and tendency to fall off the face of the earth had always been one of his strengths. The feds probably didn't even know this place existed. It was as far removed from his small home in Hale Beach as could be. This was a high-rise mansion on the water. It looked as if it had once been a condominium, but there were no cars in the lot.

Legato answered softly. "This is where they are. They don't have anywhere else to go now, thanks to you and Vash."

Wolfwood shook his head. Legato's anger at the dissolution of his gang was not important now. They both stood to lose a lot if Vash could not be retrieved safely. Legato hadn't said as much, but he knew what the feds would do to his former comrades if any harm came to Vash. He knew very well that they would hunt all of them down, worse than before, and make them suffer. Enjoy it, even.

Wolfwood was hardly foolish enough not to realize this as well. Vash was valuable to too many people and if they couldn't get him back...

"I'm going in," he said.

"Alone?"

"If I have to."

"Without a plan?"

"Well, yeah. Unless you've got one."

Legato regarded him coldly. "Sometimes I wonder how you ever almost caught me so many times."

"I had time to think then. Now I don't. I'd rather go in there half-cocked and have a chance of getting him back than waste time thinking up a plan that may or may not work while they split out of town. If they leave now, I'll never track them down. You people have too many operations."

"Even after you shut so many of them down trying to capture me?"

"I doubt I got even half of them."

"You didn't," Legato said with what might have been a smile on anyone else, but was too dead and broken on his face. He regarded Wolfwood clinically and then said. "Well, if you insist on this insanity, I might be able to help you."

Wolfwood's expression was distrustful but, "I'd appreciate that," was all he said. Legato nodded, curtly, then outlined his plan.

* * *

Vash came to. He got the feeling he'd been dreaming again, but it was gone now, lost under the pain. 

His first reaction was to smirk. Then he stared grimly at the bars all around him and rubbed at his cheek. His answer had been honest, and, apparently, wrong. He definitely had Knives beat when it came to speed, but when it came to hitting hard and mercilessly targeting everywhere that hurt, Knives was king. He fought a little dirty, like a Marine on shore leave or—

Vash frowned.

Or like a street kid, which is what he had been.

He tried to dredge up some anger for his brother, but only felt a kind of sad disappointment. He was one of those men who could be great, but who never quite grew up enough to see the world through anything but a child's eyes. He was squandering all the things he had been given. Knives was smart and powerful and determined, but the most he ever did with it was terrify and control. What he was doing was wrong, selfish even. Knives wanted something—namely, Vash, by his side, compliant and receptive to his ideas and way of life—and he wanted it by his rules, his terms.

Vash wouldn't give it to him, hence the cage, a sturdy steel affair as heavy as anything had rights to be. It sat in a wide area that might have once been for storage in the basement of the tall building. The cage didn't budge and he couldn't even pick the lock because he had nothing on him: no pins, no paper clips, no nothing.

Thorough, his brother was. Bloody thorough.

The man in question had just walked into the room, tall, thin and frighteningly comfortable in his skin. He was accompanied by a very compact man with wild hair and eyes. Vash recognized him from the fight at the airfield. Towering over both of them was a dark-haired and handsome man. Only the distinct scars beneath his eye marred his good looks. Vash recognized him as the man from the surveillance photo taken of Legato Bluesummers. This was the powerful crime lord known only as Livio.

Vash tried to move to a less vulnerable appearing position and had to stifle a wince. Knives almost seemed to pity him.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"Uh, hmmm. Let me think about that. I guess I'm going to go with 'no' for 300, Alex."

Knives was not amused, but Livio cracked a smile. The small one only stared down at his feet with bloodshot eyes. It appeared as if he had been crying.

"Do you know why I've put you here?"

"You're going to charge the little children five dollars a pop to see me? I'll do tricks for peanuts."

This time Livio turned away and cleared his throat.

The strong muscle at Knives' jaw flexed. "I had hoped it would give you time to think about where you belong."

"And right you were!" Vash said with a grunt as his ankle throbbed. "My time in this cage has been time well spent. I have decided that I belong on a beach with young, attractive women attending to my needs. Do you think you can swing that for me?"

Knives shook his head. "I don't understand you."

"No, you don't. It's mutual." Vash sighed and looked a little lost. "All jokes aside, what _are_ you expecting, here, eh? You think this will change my mind? Do you think this will make me see your point of view? Knives, you're my brother and I can forgive a lot, but this is nuts. Let me help you."

Knives moved close to the glass. "It's the other way around now, isn't it," he said softly. "You in there, me out here. How does it feel?"

"It feels like shit and you know it."

"Yes, I do. We aren't supposed to be separated by bars or ideals. Certainly not by _them_. Do you remember how good it felt to be on the same side for once? I could hold you. I could protect you. If that means nothing to you," here he paused and looked away, "then stay in there until it _does_."

At that moment, there was a strange rumble. The building shook gently, and then was still.

"What the hell was that?" Livio asked, hands out to his side as he attempted to balance his big body. The smaller man was looking around in panic. "I knew it!" he hissed. "They've already come for him!"

"Shut up!" Livio cursed. He turned to his boss once the tremor stopped. "That wasn't an earthquake. That was a goddamn explosion. You want me to check it out?"

"No, I want you to stay here. I'll go look."

"Not by yourself," Livo said with concern. "I've got some of my boys with me. Take them with you. Please, sir." He was already reaching for his cell phone.

Knives nodded. "Yes. All right." At that, Livio placed a call in clipped, efficient tones.

"They're on their way to escort you."

Knives nodded, the only sign of his approval for Livio's quick, efficient handling of things. "Then we'll go see who has come calling."

The little one jerked as Knives passed by him. "Master? What should I—"

"E.G.," Knives said to him, "Watch over my brother. He's...important to me." He handed a key over to the man without really noticing him. "Move him if anything should go wrong. Keep him safe." He looked at Vash then with one lingering, almost hungry look, and then strode off to meet the thuggish gang of men who had come for him.

"Knives! You're handling this all wrong!" Vash cried out. He was terrified. What if that explosion had been his team come to rescue him? What if they were hurt?

Worse, what if Wolfwood had come for him? It was too much to even think about.

Knives didn't reply. Instead, he kept his back to his brother, not wanting to see him like that, and moved through the darkened halls of the building. It was always so quiet here. Always so empty. The building was too big for just him. Once, there had been life here. Who was left but Livio and E.G.?

The men at his back were so...common. Livio commanded them well, but Knives couldn't think of them as anything except dead weight, best for catching bullets. He took a corner, following what sounded like the splash of water, like sprinklers dousing a fire. Surely the blast had come from this part of the building.

He suddenly stopped walking.

At the end of the hallway, a man was waiting for him. His body language was confrontational. The thugs at his back were already aiming. Knives didn't expect them to be able to fire off even a single shot. He was correct.

In an instant, the wet, butchered sound of meat ripping met his ears. In the next, there was an artful spray of blood arching through the air around him. The barest splatter hit his cheek and he wiped it away. The sloppy, sickening sound of bodies splashing to the floor was the last sound before there was nothing but silence.

"Knives," Legato said, then seemed to reconsider. "Master," he added, but hardly sounded humble. Knives took a step forward to remove himself from the gore behind him.

He stretched his arms wide, a wild grin on his face. "Well, look at us! Look at what we have become." He was hawk-like as he neared his former pupil, lieutenant, and favorite. "You're leading in my place, if what Livio says is correct. Traveling across the country to bail out your siblings when the FBI comes knocking."

His head rolled back on his neck in a motion of serpentine agitation. A loud crack sounded as his bones settled into place again. "And you left me to rot in jail in your place. The only one I ever truly trusted betrayed me."

Legato might have winced, but the shadows hid every reaction.

"Are you going to fight me?" Knives asked. Legato had yet to move nearer, but Knives was closing the distance between them. "Are you going to try to hurt me again?"

He paused before Legato, close enough that his eyes moved quickly over his face, incapable of taking in everything at once. Legato's remained steady, as if he didn't need to see everything at all.

"You haven't aged a day. You never will," Legato said quietly. "You're still just as beautiful as when I first saw you. What is my defection to you? You can always form another army, always find another servant. Time means nothing to you."

"No, it doesn't. But I _can_ be hurt," he said and raised a hand. When is slid down Legato's cheek, his eyes fluttered. "Master," he repeated, as soft as a prayer.

Knives leaned in close, placed his forehead tenderly against Legato's. "_You_ hurt me. You abandoned me. I saved you and you left me to the wolves." His breath was hot against Legato's mouth. "I hate you."

It wasn't a punch, it was a force, and it swept Legato into the air and away. He landed on the floor, arms splayed and eyes shocked. Then he was on his feet again, graceful, aware that a fight had begun. It wasn't one he was certain he could win.

He lashed out and the power kicked up dust and floor as it moved straight for Knives. Arms raised before his face, Knives braced against it and the energy and dust split away from him like waves breaking on a shore. A small trickle of blood streamed down his face. He dabbed at it, surprise in his every feature.

"You've gotten stronger. I wonder why. It wasn't me, so who was it? Who awakened this power inside you?"

Legato screamed and sent another wave flying, muscles straining. This one pushed his former master back and a flying piece of debris broke through the barrier, slashing at his cheek. Knives hissed. Everything about his reaction showed that he was unaccustomed to pain and didn't like it.

"You should do your own fighting more, Master. Too many have done your dirty work for you. It's made you weak."

"I am _never _that."

Legato made a strangled noise and staggered back. Blood seeped through the fabric of his clothing at the shoulder. An old wound, an old bullet wound from a man he hated. It was open again and bleeding, as if it had never healed at all.

"A souvenir from my brother, I believe," Knives said and wiped at his cheek, smearing blood on his face and sleeve. "Have I told you about him? He is _everything _you never were. I have found the real thing, what you were merely a substitute for."

Legato doubled over, clutching at his shoulder. His face turned red. A blast of his power was as weak as a child's push and Knives smiled triumphantly. "It was always this way, wasn't it? When you're in pain, you lose control. You lose focus."

He stood over Legato, grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. He laughed when Legato went down on one knee, grunting and coughing.

"You can suffer the pain, but you can't move beyond it. Vash, he is different. He is so used to pain, all he does it keep going in spite of it. He could barely walk and he still tried to fight me. Can you believe that? He is a miracle. He is what I always needed by my side."

Legato managed a humorless laugh. "He will never choose you."

The peaceful, scheming look fell off of Knives' face. "What?"

"Vash has his loyalties figured out already. He has no reason to choose you."

"Ah. I see. Choose me over _him_,you mean?"

"I know Vash better than you think. If it comes down to choosing you or choosing Chapel, he will choose Chapel. Every time."

He screamed when Knives squeezed harder, his thumb pushing soaked fabric into the wound deeper and deeper. "And there you are wrong. He will side with me, even if it is only because he believes he can save me. He is that naïve. But he is strong, smart, and capable. I need him. More than I ever needed you."

Legato laughed again. "He _is_ strong. He is probably stronger than you. If he refuses to side with you, you are no match. All the reasons you want him are all the reasons you will lose."

The anger twisting Knives' face was almost tangible in the air. As plainly as he might assess the weather, Legato knew: Knives was going to kill him.

And just as suddenly, just as plainly, he realized something else:

He didn't want to die. Not now.

"If the Detective is the root of the problem, I can destroy him just as easily as I'm going to destroy you. Vash can't chose a dead man, now can he?"

Legato felt heat and pressure building behind his eyes. No, not _now_.

The force of it made his head scream. It pounded against the protective walls around Knives, clawed at them, and then finally broke through in a burst of energy. Something twisted, ripped and then bled.

Knives gurgled and stumbled back, clutching at his stomach. Blood slowly bubbled up at his lips. He looked so surprised, so shocked it was almost comical. He sputtered on a few words. Legato stood shakily.

"The one who can't understand pain is you."

Knives went down on his knees and Legato touched his face, tilting his head up so that their eyes could meet.

"This won't kill me," Knives rasped. "I'll always be here."

Legato backed away and left Knives for the last time. "Yes, and you'll be alone."

Knives curled onto his side on the floor, hunching around the fire in his gut, hating the world.

* * *

All Vash could do now was slump back and wait. 

He turned half an ear to the argument that was going on outside his cell. It wasn't a terribly interesting one and it had been going on for at least five minutes by the time he decided to tune in. The two rough and tumble looking men were talking about him as if he weren't in the room at all. It made him feel like furniture, but not in a good, cushy, sensible and affordable, room-brightening way.

"They're gonna come crashing in here with the whole damn agency to get him back," the smaller man whom he had learned was named E.G. screamed. "It was supposed to be a _trade_. And Rai Dei! You didn't see what he did to Rai Dei. I can't even focus, man. How am I supposed to fucking think without Rai Dei?"

"Calm down!" reprimanded Livio, an altogether more reasonable man who was still frightening simply because of his size and blind loyalty.

E.G. sputtered angrily. "I can't calm down and we gotta get rid of him. They're just gonna keep lookin' for him."

"Even if you're right times a hundred and four, it don't make no never mind. The boss wants him around, so we deal with it."

"The boss doesn't have to know. I don't trust him anymore, anyway. I don't like how he..." he sniffed a little and then coughed, as if he couldn't fight anger and despair at the same time. "What if Saverem just...went missing"

There was a long pause. "Who called hunting season? You're not thinking of giving him back. You're thinking of offing him."

"Better that than have to deal with the feds."

"I'll take the feds pissed off over Knives. What went down went down because Knives wanted it that way. He won't like it if the guy he went through a lot of trouble to keep around suddenly goes up and missing. We do what Knives says and that's the end of it. We can take the heat for him this once since he's always taken it for us. That's final. I outrank you, so deal."

"Where are you going?" E.G. cried after the larger man, who had turned to go.

"I need a smoke and to get away from your tired, lazy ass. You keep pretty boy company. Touch a blonde hair on his head, and you'll be scraping your nuts off the pavement."

Livio was gone for less than a minute before E.G.'s nervousness took hold of him. He paced back and forth, letting his eyes drift to the captive in the cage only when he was relatively sure that Vash wasn't looking at him in return. Finally, the uncertainty he felt took the form of a panicky monologue addressed, apparently, to no one but himself.

"It wasn't our fault. It wasn't our fault. Stuck with this ticking time bomb, twice as dangerous as the boss and it wasn't our fault. Not Rai Dei's. He was...he was..."

He paused before the bars and looked at Vash with passionate distaste. "It's like I have a mouse in a trap. Just so pretty, aren't you? And he loves you. He loves you so fucking bad and he killed Rai Dei. Like he treats me. Like dirt. Like I don't even matter. But you matter to him. Offing you? Yeah, I could teach him how it feels. He'll know what it's like to watch what matters the most to him bleed out before his eyes."

Vash shook his head. "You deaf or just stupid? The whole nut scraping thing didn't have an effect? Not even a little one?"

"Getting rid of you makes things easier for me, that's true," E.G. said as if Vash hadn't spoken at all. He suddenly pulled a heavy gun Vash recognized as a magnum from the back of his jeans. "Fish in a barrel? Mouse in a barrel? It just wasn't my fault. Rai Dei," he finished on a sob.

He aimed.

There was a noise like a war starting. E.G. spun and looked behind him as if he expected to see an explosion or something to explain the violent sound. When he saw nothing, he called into the darkness, "Livio?"

There was no reply.

He turned back to Vash. The man in the cage was looking just as disturbed by the terrible noise as E.G. himself. But behind the fear was hope. E.G. smirked. "I do believe they've come for you. I told Livio that they would. I did. Well, if they want you, they can have you. In pieces."

He aimed once more.

And never got a chance to fire. He went down, and as his body tumbled, the figure of a man in black was revealed behind him, apparently the reason he had collapsed. Wolfwood propped a heavy looking pipe on the ground. Then he secured his gun in the back of his pants, dropped down beside E.G.'s body, and began to rifle through his clothing. He didn't spare a look at Vash, but worked in silence.

When he had the key, he got the lock open, and entered. Then he crouched over Vash, checking quickly the extent of his injuries. He had yet to look him in the eye.

"Can you walk?"

"Not exactly." He looked into the dark beyond his prison, nervous. "I think we should hurry, there was another one."

"Yeah, there was," Wolfwood agreed. It was then that Vash noticed the angry looking bruise on his cheek. "Your face," he said.

Wolfwood shrugged. "You should see the other guy? Or something like that."

Then he was speaking softly, detailing how they were going to get out of here, where they were going once they were out. He wasn't sure where Knives was, but he was certain that he was...'distracted' was the word he settled on eventually. Vash wasn't sure he wanted to know what that meant. Through it all, Wolfwood's eyes never once settled on his. And he knew they were still walking the edge of things after the fight, and that they had never discussed it properly, but he'd thought they were okay. He'd wanted them to be okay.

Wolfwood's eyes slipped off of him again, like water down a roof.

Finally, Vash had had enough. "Look at me," he said.

Wolfwood did. There was quite a lot in his eyes and it made Vash's fears trickle away. He'd been right: one lousy fight wasn't enough to end _this_. Maybe one hundred wouldn't make much of a dent either. Vash found himself wanting to smile, but didn't.

"Put your arms around me," Wolfwood said softly. "Let's get you out of here."

Vash wound his arms around his neck, thought about how corny this might look to an outside observer; like a bad movie or a worse TV show. Wolfwood stood and Vash winced.

"Sorry," said Wolfwood, trying his best to gently remove him from the small space. He got him out of the cage, stepping lightly. He set him down long enough to lock E.G. in the cage. Then he was back at Vash's side and Vash was back in his arms.

Vash studied him. Wolfwood's features were set and determined. The arms around him were thin but strong. He had the strangest idea that this really _was_ a romantic moment. And if it _were_ a movie, he'd kiss the guy who had saved him. Maybe he'd even say something sappy and romantic before doing the deed and then the sun would set behind them and fireworks would light the sky.

_But this wasn't a movie_, Vash thought. Then he figured, _to hell with the movies_.

Wolfwood moaned into the kiss. In reply, Vash just wound his arms tighter around his neck, pulled him as close as he could. He was in pain everywhere but here, right here where their lips met. Here felt pretty good.

Wolfwood's stubble scratched his face and he smelled like sweat and tasted like tobacco and adrenaline. Vash wasn't sure what he tasted like, but doubted it was good. But Wolfwood licked at his mouth like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Vash understood: he had developed an unhealthy fondness for the taste of tobacco.

It was Wolfwood who broke the kiss. He rested his forehead against Vash's and said, practically, "After we get out of here. After you can walk."

Vash nodded. He'd heard what Wolfwood had really said which was something like, "If we get our of here. If we live to see daylight."

It sounded more promising to Vash than it should. He was sure they'd been in worse situations before. And hell, he'd waited five years to be able to kiss the guy, one night was just details.

"How did you find me?" he asked. Pain helped hide the suspicion in his voice. "How'd you get in?"

"Did I ever tell you about that guy Kaite knows who makes explosives?"

"Explosives?"

"Explosives. Lots of them. All different shapes and sizes. They work good on locked doors."

Vash nodded as the tremors were explained. "And all of Livio's gang? You did that single-handed?"

"Oh. Well, no. I had a little help from an old friend," Wolfwood said, knowing already that Vash understood.

Vash took a small, quiet breath. "Is he here?"

"He is."

"Yeah, today freakin' sucks," said under his breath.

Then there was silence for several minutes as he helped Vash limp through the twists and turns of the hallway. "For a skinny guy," he grumbled, trying to distribute the weight more evenly.

Vash winched, paused, and gingerly touched his leg. "Maybe it's just a sprain?"

Wolfwood pushed up the leg of Vash's slacks to the sound of the man stifling a hiss. "That one, yeah. But this one looks bad."

"It feels bad. Good to know looks aren't deceiving in this case. Honesty is the best policy."

"Not up to standard. You need rest if you're gonna try for the wise cracks. Can you make it to my bike?"

"What, no white horse?"

"Just a dirty, old, beat up motorcycle. Hardly good enough for you, your worship."

"I'll take what I can get. I have to be back before I turn into a pumpkin. Just so you know."

Wolfwood and Vash moved through the building to the front door, unmolested. Outside, they stumbling forward a little as light blasted against their eyes. The scene before them made them pull up short in shock. Twin helicopters soared low and then split apart, lights wildly dancing across the asphalt. Officers and agents stood in uniform lines everywhere they looked. They moved forward, surrounded the two figures limping from the complex. Others streamed past them in an endless wave. Under the moonlight, their shadows were like an army all by themselves, strange and deformed. Their breath steamed in the air.

Vash and Wolfwood exchanged confused looks. "Who called the cavalry?" Vash tried to joke. He shivered in the cold breeze off the water. Both of them had a fair idea of what was going on. Wolfwood watched everything as if it were in slow motion: the lights sweeping around them, the armored S.W.A.T. team with their guns, the flash of the squad cars.

A man who later turned out to be a special agent in a unit Vash had never had cause to work with ran to meet them, screaming orders. It was all a blur, the ambulance, the sound of dozens of footsteps racing towards a building that they would find silent as the grave. Silent, but not empty.

"Agent Saverem!" they shouted. "We have you. The situation is under control."

Suddenly, the agents and officers moved forward, intent on one goal. Wolfwood watched as Vash was dragged away from him. "No!"

Vash shouted something back, but was overwhelmed by people trying to 'protect him.'

Wolfwood looked at Vash's shouting face as if watching it from far away, like a movie screen. Agent Scanlon was running up. His eyes were filled with worry for Vash, and then they turned calculating when they settled on Wolfwood. He gestured to several agents who immediately headed in his direction.

Another shout joined the cacophony. "Sir, drop your weapon and put your hands up."

Wolfwood looked over his shoulder at the white building.

He looked at the stern-faced agents with their guns. He knew why they were here. He knew who had led them here.

He looked back at Vash and saw the exact moment Vash understood what he was going to do.

And then he did it. Vash was shouting at him and Scanlon was screaming and Wolfwood didn't care.

"Hold your fire, we want him alive!"

Turning on his heels, he ran back into the building. Back to Legato.

* * *

In a dark hallway on the south side of the building, Legato stood beside a window and then carefully peered out of it. He saw the scene—the cops the suits, the ambulance—but he wasn't thinking about it. He hurt; everywhere Knives had hurt him cried out, but even that didn't register. 

He was alive.

Wolfwood had eyes the color of indigo dye.

He was alive.

Wolfwood had been warm in the morning, curled up beside him on a bed. And he lied easily with his smoky, accented voice. Tasted like liquor and sin and moved like a shadow. The first time he'd seen him, it had been raining. He'd thought his head was going to explode from all the disparate ideas and feelings buzzing inside it. Wolfwood had taken his breath away then.

He still did.

The entire world was waiting outside for him. For Livio and all that was left of his gang. For Knives, wherever he was. He'd left him there, helpless and in pain, his body a little twisted, just like his mind. Maybe, life was more balanced than he'd ever imagined. He heard footsteps, but didn't turn around. No one else walked like that.

"And is your boyfriend in one piece, or were we too late?"

"He's fine, thanks to you. You saved his life."

"More's the pity." A trickle of blood caught on the corner of his lip. He licked it away. Wolfwood saw nothing but the tense, long line of his back. Perhaps he was grateful for that. They were so high up and everything looked so small down there.

Wolfwood raised an eyebrow. "Now I'm damned confused." He deliberately ignored the sound of a helicopter overhead to ask, "If you didn't want to, then why'd you do it? You still sweet on him after that kiss?" Wolfwood couldn't believe he was joking at a time like this. Vash was rubbing off on him.

Legato ignored the helicopter, and the failed attempt at humor. "Not for his sake," he said gruffly.

"Then for Knives'?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Dammit, if you want me to say it so badly, then fine. For yours," Legato hissed. His posture showed that he was forcing himself to admit these things, for whatever reason, at a great cost. Wolfwood found himself intrigued, desperately so.

He felt his feet take him closer, cautiously. "Why?"

There was a flutter of motion. The hand that clenched around his throat when he was too close to Legato was hardly a surprise. The fact that he'd bothered to use his hand at all when his mind could do so much more, however, was. "Don't press your luck, Chapel."

The hand tightened, making him gasp. Perhaps he looked genuinely scared enough, which he was, for the attack suddenly turned into a caress. Head down, Legato didn't look as his fingers trailed over Wolfwood's neck and then up to his face. They brushed over his eyes which fluttered closed.

It was strangely natural to take the hand that swept over his features, pull it to his lips and kiss it. It was even more so to give the hand a small tug and draw Legato to him. They fit together like they'd been cast that way, in blood and bone and skin. The sirens were loud in the distance.

He licked his lips unconsciously and Legato's eyes clouded at the sight.

"And what is this, now? Is this your feeble way of thanking me for saving your lover? Using your body as a reward?" he laughed bitterly. "Are you really such a martyr?"

Wolfwood shook his head and panted back, "This is no sacrifice."

"Then you're a fool."

"I'm worse than that," Wolfwood agreed. Their lips were so close together, almost, but not quite, touching. He maneuvered his legs so that Legato was between them, pressing in. Planting his feet a little further apart, he could move, thrust a little, mimic what they did so well together.

Legato's fists slammed into the wall on either side of Wolfwood's head. "Here? With all the world preparing to storm in on us?"

"Here. You can keep them all away, can't you?"

His eyes shut off something right then; they swallowed a truth, even though his lips moved as if they hadn't. "And why should I?"

"Because you want it, too," Wolfwood said, cupping the front of Legato's loose slacks where the truth of his words was evident.

Legato didn't deny it. He didn't answer, either. Instead, he grabbed Wolfwood's face and held it steady. Then he looked into his eyes.

"You," he began, but didn't finish the thought. He lowered his lips as if he might kiss him, breathing harshly as if in torment. Then he took a step back, releasing Wolfwood. The extra step after that was taken as if he didn't trust himself otherwise. The absence of his warmth made Wolfwood shiver. The feeling of the kiss that had never been made him dizzy.

Below them, there was the sound of footsteps. After a moment, the sound reached the stairwell that led to the hallway where they stood. Scanlon and his men had entered the building. Wolfwood recognized the intense expression on Legato's face as the one he wore when he was about to unleash his deadly power. When they reached the landing, all the officers and agents would be ripped to pieces in moments.

"Don't," Wolfwood shouted quickly. He grabbed his arm and turned Legato to face him. "Don't do more damage. Let them live."

Legato glared at him and wrenched his arm free. "They'll hunt us both down."

"It's what we deserve."

The power flared around him and he roared in rage. A small scratch bloomed on Wolfwood's cheek, but he didn't back down. Legato stared into Wolfwood's eyes, his own tinged red with bloodlust and perhaps fear. Quite suddenly, Wolfwood understood. The angry bruises on Legato's neck, the blood on his clothes explained what he needed to know. Legato glared at him, seeing his understanding and hating him for it. His power surged once again and a twin scratch formed on Wolfwood's opposite cheek, but Wolfwood still refused to stand down or break eye contact. Then, as if something had defeated him, Legato turned his head away and held out his hand. "Come with me," he demanded.

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Away."

Below, the sound of dozens of footsteps moving higher sounded, resounded, and swirled up towards them.

Wolfwood blanched, and thought quickly—how long could he contain Legato's rage? How long could he distract it?

"The roof," he said.

* * *

The building was large, but there were enough of them to sweep it thoroughly. They'd pulled out all the stops on this one. Somebody was getting taken down. Hard. 

The radio buzzed. "Kolbert here. Do you copy?"

"Copy, Kolbert. What is your position?"

"First floor corridor, north side. I think we've got a live one here. We will investigate. Over."

"Copy that, Kolbert. Take Roy and check it out."

"Roger."

Light streaked into the room from the lights attached to his rifle. Roy's lean steps took him into the room before Kolbert, who swung his light into the corners. Something had moved. When his light hit the far wall, there was just a long window curtain, fluttering in the breeze. Something wasn't right. Closer in, he signaled to Roy to cover the exit.

Something moved, fast, and he readied to fire.

It was the last thing he ever did as something got him around the neck and a loud snap went through the room. The sound never reached his ears. Nor did he hear Roy's body jerk and collapse by his head. He didn't hear the sound of zippers being unzipped or a voice that sounded remarkably like his own say, "We're clear in here. It was just a mouse. Me and Roy are heading up a level."

"Copy that. Watch your ass."

"Can do."

* * *

Knives walked heavily. The black of the S.W.A.T. gear hid the blood on his chest. The pain was excruciating, but not nearly as bad as the unfamiliar emotion that made his chest ache. He didn't bother to name it. He just knew something was missing. He intended to fix that. 

Outside air, tainted with sea salt and the particular musk of fish and shells, slammed into his chest and made him cough.

"You okay?" a fed in plain clothes asked.

"Fine," he coughed. "Just can't breath. They sent me out to see a medic."

The man pointed. "Over there. They commandeered that little administrative building. Get in line. Somebody did a number on a couple of thugs."

Knives nodded behind his heavy mask. The world was just a little fuzzy around the edges. Only a little. He could see the ambulance parked beside what was a satellite building to the condo. He could see a swarm of EMTs fluttering about in a panic. Inside, he could see the reason why: Livio's gang, ripped to ribbons by Legato.

"Look at all this blood!" someone gasped. "Is he even breathing?"

He limped on. Everyone was too busy to worry about a S.W.A.T. guy who was obviously capable of all the necessary bodily functions. Not when so many were dead and dying at their fingertips.

He closed his eyes, sought the bright blue sky and the clear water. He opened them again slowly. Something was, indeed, missing.

No one stopped him as he turned a corner. He paused outside a door and just knew. Like finding water in a desert.

He walked in.

Vash was standing before the window of the room, framed by the night. The city across the water glittered white and gold and Vash...

To Knives, Vash glowed. He was hot and essential like blood. He was the only one who could last the years with him. He was the only one he wanted to.

Vash didn't turn. Their eyes caught in the glass reflection. "I figured you'd come for me."

Knives removed the heavy helmet and let it fall to the ground. "Your injuries?"

"You hit hard, but I'll live," Vash said. "See, I can even stand." He lifted his leg and then set it down, frowning as if he didn't like how healthy it felt so soon.

"I'm...glad."

A disbelieving puff of air escaped from Vash's lips. The window fogged. "You're really bad at this," he said. It made Knives bow his head. "You're right, of course. I don't know what to say."

Vash nodded. "I figured as much." He buried his fingers into the loose grey slacks he wore. Without his glasses, he looked rugged and strong: just a little bruised and weary. "Why don't you start with how you expect anything to go your way here when you're a criminal and I'm a federal agent?"

"Your job with the government is finished. Legato is being arrested as we speak as is E.G. and all the others. The children have been taken away. I don't mourn for them because I have you. You're strong. You're fearless. Together, imagine what we could do! The humans are nothing to us. Meaningless, petty, broken. Legato knew this. Even you can't deny how corrupt they are! You've done enough for them. Now it is time to do something for yourself. You have no reason to work with the FBI now."

"No, I guess I don't. Even still, jobless as I'm soon to be, what makes you think I'll want to join you?"

Knives took a step into the room. "Because you realized where you belong when I held you."

"Don't bet on it."

Knives took another step. He could smell the unique, layered smell of Vash, the shampoo and the sweat and the aftershave. "And because you think you can save me from myself." He rested his hand on his brother's sharp shoulder, squeezed.

They eyed each other for a minute more in the clear glass. "Yeah, maybe I think I can save you," Vash said. "But not like this."

Knives wasn't surprised by the motion. He knew Vash was going to move, and he moved with him. It ended in a standstill, neither man gaining any ground. Both of them injured as they were, the fight was hardly graceful. They retreated, moving around the sparse furniture in their way.

Knives had a standard issue gun he'd found in the Kolbert's holster. But it didn't seem to mean much to Vash who had it clattering uselessly against a wall with a smooth kick his damaged leg shouldn't have been able to do. Knives still hit harder. His blows bought him enough time to get the gun again. He fired.

But Vash was still faster.

Knives didn't see him duck and slide in. He felt the result, however, and went down when an elbow connected with the soft spot where skull met neck. Catching himself was easy once he dropped the gun, but staying up when another fist hit that same spot was tough. It was all he could do to flip around, get his legs out from underneath him and send Vash flying back. His stomach screamed at him and he could taste his own blood again. The gun was heavy in his hand once more. He fired.

His ears were good. That hadn't been a single shot.

With a childish disbelief on his face, he lowered his eyes to the slowly leaking hole in his shoulder. Then he looked up at Vash who was holding a gun steadily before his face. Knives gurgled a laugh and lifted his gun again.

The second shot, he felt. His body jerked. It hurt a little less when he let the gun slip from his grasp.

"I can't believe you..." He coughed when his breath caught. The pain was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It burned hot and cold at intervals. "You chose them over me?" Vash wondered how much work his brother had done to change the 'him' he'd been about to say to the 'them' he'd managed to.

"I can't see the world like you," Vash said quietly. He leaned over his brother, placed a dry kiss to his forehead and then sat back, watching him while he waited for the feds to respond to the gunshots.

"It hurts," Knives said. It was unclear if he meant the betrayal or the bullet wounds.

"We both know you'll live," Vash replied.

* * *

They took the stairs at a run, never pausing to determine the progress of their escape. They broke through the door by force alone, shouldering into it violently. Finally out in the open air and away from the sounds of pursuit, Wolfwood dropped his hands to his knees and caught his breath. Coming to his senses, he found what he could to block the door. To hold them off a little longer. Before him, near the ledge, Legato paced, hands running through his hair and flexing at his sides anxiously. 

"Shit," he cursed and then kicked at a vent near his foot. As if exhausted, he suddenly stopped, bracing his foot on the low ledge and his elbow on his knee. With the bay and the city a mural of navy, square shapes and pinpoint lights beyond his shoulders, it looked like he was surveying an enemy he had no chance of defeating: Legato against the world.

Wolfwood joined him a moment later, his posture identical.

They gazed out over the city, and the deadly still water together in silence. Not home to either of them, just a city. Day would break soon with all its inescapable certainties and consequences.

Wolfwood looked down at the flashing lights surrounding the building; the squad cars and big, intimidating federal vans. Then he looked up at the helicopters circling above.

"You're not getting out of here alive. You know that, right?"

"Probably not. But I can take you with me." His voice was still so smooth, so lovely and broken. Even here at the end.

Wolfwood lit a cigarette with a twisted match he found in his jacket. He extinguished the flame with a flick of his wrist and sent the matches' cremated remains floating on the wind. He wondered it the S.W.A.T. team would find it and use it as evidence. He let out a puff of smoke that tasted damn good. "That's just two bodies instead of one."

Legato almost smiled. "And what difference does one more dead murderer make to the feds? That's what you are to them: just another monster."

Wolfwood seemed to consider this. He wondered if he was being a coward, avoiding the issue. At the moment, he didn't care. "You can't fight them. You're injured."

"I can do more than you think. Remember the mines?"

Wolfwood managed a rough laugh. It broke into a coughing fit. He really needed to quit smoking. "Yeah. I remember you out of control, almost killing us both. You're in too much pain to control yourself."

Even through the door, they could hear them, an army come for them. Wolfwood got a few long drags in just as the first thundering crash against the door shattered the air. Legato's fingers curled in on themselves into a fist, his knuckles turning white. The wind in his hair made him seem unreal, like he might float away, back to where he belonged.

"I can do it again. If you'd just..." He shook his head, words he wouldn't say flying away with the gesture. "I'll leave here. I always get away." He didn't say that Wolfwood would be with him. Perhaps that was contrary to what he truly wanted, which was the chase, the routine of their cat and mouse game. Wolfwood had to admit he was damn tired of it.

"You'll buy yourself another day. A month at the most."

"The alternative," Legato said coldly, "is laying down and dying."

The makeshift brace Wolfwood had shoved against the door shuddered as if the door behind it was alive and pulsing. He let the cigarette fall and planted his feet on the roof, turning to his silent companion.

"Well then, let's get this over with," he said with a smirk, turning the man to him with gentle hands at his pale wrists. Always taller and broader and more powerful than him. Always just a little more broken. Wolfwood tugged at the wrists until they were around his waist. "If we're gonna get taken out, I at least want to fucking enjoy it."

"For auld lang syne?" Legato said wistfully.

"Why the fuck not?" Wolfwood asked and pulled him into an embrace.

They did fit together. They interlocked like chemical components, snapping together in heat and under pressure. Legato's thigh settled so snuggly in between his legs, always managed to push too hard and not hard enough. His nails screamed down his back under his shirt and that made _him_ scream into Legato's mouth. He didn't want this to stop. Legato's lips were soft, but not gentle and he didn't so much kiss as claim and demand with his tongue and his teeth.

Wolfwood gave as good as he got, clawing at the man's shoulders and rubbing their bodies together for more friction and more sensation.

The slam, slam, slam of the men at the door was in counterpoint to the thrust of Legato's tongue in and out of his mouth. He felt his spine crack when he was squeezed too tightly, pulled too roughly against the hardness of Legato's body. He let his hands dangle uselessly at his sides while Legato used his body, let his rage make a victim of him.

If Legato felt him shift—was aware of the subtle way he reached behind him—he didn't attempt to stop him. Nor did he stop kissing him feverishly, wantonly, even when the barrel of a gun pressed hard into his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Wolfwood whispered against his lips.

Legato's eyes went wide and his entire body shuddered against Wolfwood's. It was like a phantom escaping from his lungs, his exhale of breath as the violent, pungent smell filled the air. Oddly, Wolfwood would never recall hearing the actual sound. All he remembered was the taste, the smell, the lingering silence.

Almost as if he had recovered, his lips found Wolfwood's again and the kiss endured through the splatter of blood on the ground bellow them and even through the settling of Legato's body to rest atop the wet drops.

Wolfwood followed him down, arms around his back like cradling a child. His knees hit the pavement hard, but that didn't register, nor did the pained jerk of Legato's body at the jarring impact. Wolfwood held his eyes tightly shut and deepened the embrace, drinking his lover's death, lapping at it with his tongue. He could taste the blood now. The gun he let slip from his grasp in order to take the hand that scrambled for his.

Then their joined hands were wedged between them and pressed into their chests, inches away from a hot, flowing wound.

He pulled away slowly. Legato looked up at him with unfocused eyes. "It was always going to come to this," he wheezed. His body shook once and his eyes threatened to close. He forced them open again by what seemed pure strength of will and stared up with strange clarity at Wolfwood.

"Nothing," he mumbled.

His head lolled to the side. A few seconds passed and then blood pooled beneath it. Wolfwood softly touched the man's sharp jaw, the eyelids above his lifeless eyes. He shut them, or the Catholic in him did. The investigator knew they would open shortly again, just as his body would stiffen and his skin would turn strange, unnatural colors.

The man named Legato Bluesummers was dead and Wolfwood was all he had left behind.

Still crouching beside the cooling body, he looked up at his partner who was halted in the doorway as if his legs had turned to lead and kept him from moving. If there had been a team of men at his back, he had sent them away. Wolfwood didn't know. Didn't care.

And he didn't need to wonder how much Vash had seen. He already knew.

To Vash, the moment became like a scorch on his mind, a final testament to the differences between he and Wolfwood. He had faced his own personal demon and conquered it without killing. Wolfwood had murdered his in cold blood.

Vash stepped forward, eyes trained down. "He loved you," he said simply. It seemed to Vash that the _"And you killed him" _that he didn't say was very loud and heavy in the air around them.

Surprised by the strange statement, Wolfwood followed Vash's line of vision to where his hand was still clutching Legato's. He hadn't noticed.

He extracted it as carefully as he could.

"No. He only knew how to hurt. Love should never be about pain."

Vash watched as Legato's hands were placed over his chest in a poor manner of repose. "Then what should it be about, Wolfwood?" Vash asked with a hard, almost cruel tone of voice that was so unlike him that even he seemed surprised by it.

Wolfwood stood then and backed away from the bloody mess before him. "More," he said. "Just more."

He bowed his head humbly and wouldn't meet Vash's eyes.

"They'll arrest you," Vash said, glancing over his shoulder for an instant. "They have so many reasons to take you down."

"They can try, but I get the feeling I'm going to pull off an amazing escape."

"You just might."

Legato caught his eye once more, the terrible, pained expression on his face and fuck all the people who said the dead just looked like they were sleeping. And this is where they were: him more screwed up than ever, his partner, bruised and angry before him. The choice he had made.

He took a deep, painful breath. "I don't know where I'll go, but..."

And when the words puttered out—lodged somewhere between his heart and his throat—he held out a hand. It wasn't with the air of someone who expected it to be taken, or even that of someone who hoped it might be. It was an offering of an unusual kind in that neither of them believed it was more than what it was: a man with nothing left to offer asking for everything the other had to give and promising to pay the debt back one day.

"I love you," he didn't say, nor did he think to try.

Vash took his hand and everything it offered and didn't. Together they walked to the ledge and looked out over the city as it seemed to burn in the orange light of the sun struggling to rise.

"Welcome to a new day," Vash said.

The sun burst to life above the horizon and a new day did indeed begin.

The end.

* * *

Mostly Harmless, signing out. 

August 26, 2007


End file.
